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POEMS OF 
JOHN R. THOMPSON 




JOHN R. THOMPSON 

From an ambrotype made at the beginning of his editorship of 
The Southern Literary Messenger 



POEMS OF 
JOHN R. THOMPSON 

EDITED, WITH A BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION 



By JOHN S. PATTON 

. >\ . . . 

Librarian of the University of Virginia 



UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA EDITION 

[ALFRED HENRY BYRD GIFt] 



NEW YORK 

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 

1920 



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COPTBIGHT, 1920, BT 

JOHN S. PATTON 



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PREFACE 

In the present volume the poems of John R. Thompson 
have their first publication in book form. Though vagrant 
for more than a half century they have not been forgotten; 
and no collection of the work of Southern poets will ever 
fail to include some of his verses. This vitality of the known 
part of his productions is a proof of worth and supports 
Thompson's right to assignment to a station of dignity among 
Southerners who have won distraction with the pen. He 
deserved the reward of recognition for his service — the great- 
est rendered by any one of his particular section — in creating 
a literary spirit and a literary class in. the South. 

Thompson twice assembled his poems for publication: 
in 1863, when he and Henry Timrod put their verses together 
for joiat publication; and again, a short time before his death. 
The poems of this last collection were committed to the keep- 
ing of his literary executor, who never accounted for them 
and some prose manuscripts that he received at the same 
time. The war-time collection was entrusted to a blockade- 
runner tp be printed in London, and was never heard of agara. 
Because of these vicissitudes there was no nucleus, and with 
the flight of years the task of brrngiag the pieces together 
became difficult. The Southern Literary Messenger published 
the most of his work, but usually the poems were unsigned 
or over noms de plume not remembered as his. The perplexi- 
ties created by anonymity were gradually cleared up with 
the assistance of "persons and papers." Miss LUy Quarles, 
the poet's niece, put at the editor's service all of the letters 
and manuscripts in the possession of the family that in any 
way bear upon Thompson's life and work. There are letters 
from William Gilmore Simms, Henry Timrod, Paid Hamil- 
ton Hayne, John Esten Cooke, James Barron Hope, Mar- 



vi PREFACE 

garet J. Preston, John Pendleton Kennedy, Rufus W. Gris- 
wold, Donald G. Mitchell, and many others, rich in per- 
sonal and critical information which has been freely used ra 
the biographical part of this volume. A valuable supple- 
ment to the letters to Thompson is a large number of his 
own letters, found in the unpublished Griswold Manuscripts 
in the Athenaeum Library in Boston and in the inedited 
Kennedy Papers in the Library of the Peabody Institute, Bal- 
timore. They throw a flood of light on the writer's life and 
the literary interests of the period just before the Civil War. 
This book owes much to an abiding faith in the value of 
Thompson's services to literature, to a persistent and wide- 
spread interest in his better known poems, and to friend- 
ships due to his personal worth and attraction. To more 
persons than can well be named here thanks are offered for 
assiduous and sympathetic assistance. Miss Carrie Hill 
Davis searched the libraries and other archives of New York 
and left no Thompsoniana imdiscovered. Colonel W. Gor- 
don McCabe of Richmond, Thompson's friend, commimicated 
his memories of the poet and his work, as did also Mr. Armi- 
stead C. Gordon and Mr. R. T. W. Duke, Jr. Mr. J. H. 
Whitty lent letters and manuscripts from his large collec- 
tion, and Mrs. Thomas H. Ellis an interesting packet of 
Thompson's intimate letters to her father, the late B. John- 
son Barbour of BarboursvUle, Va. These are but a few of 
those who lent biographical and other material used in the 
preparation of this volume. Three others whose contribu- 
tion was in the form of needed advice and assistance are 
Professor William M. Thornton, Dr. John C. Metcalf, and 
Dr. Philip A. Bruce, who have followed the work from the 
beginning until its delivery to the publishers. 

J. S. P. 
The Libraet, Univeesitt op Virginia, 
August, 1919. 



CONTENTS 

FAQE 

Preface v 

Biography xi 

Lee to the Rear. {Crescent Monthly, New Orleans) ... 1 

The Burial of Latane. (Southern Literary Messenger, 1862) . 4 

AsHBY. (Richmond Whig, June 13, 1862) 6 

General J. E. B. Stuart. (Richmond Examiner, May, 1864) 8 

The Battle Rainbow. (Southern Literary Messenger, 1862) . 11 

Music in Camp 13 

On to Richmond. (Richmond Whig) 16 

Old Abe's Message (July 4, 1861) 21 

England's Neutrality. (Southern Illustrated News, Rich- 
mond) 24 

The Devil's Delight. (The Land We Love, 1867) 30 

A Word with the West, (Southern Illustrated News, 1862) . 33 

Coercion. (Charleston Mercury, 1861)* 36 

United States District Court, District No. 1, Underwood, 

J. (The Land We Love, 1867) 39 

William H. Seward 40 

A Farewell to Pope. (Southern Illustrated News) .... 43 

Richmond's a Hard Road to Travel. (Southern Illustrated 

News) 45 

Virginia Fuit. (The Old Guard, New York, 1867) 49 

The Greek Slave, of Powers. (Southern Literary Messenger, 

1847) 51 

Dedication Hymn. (Southern Literary Messenger, 1848) . . 54 

La Morgue. (Southern Literary Messenger, 1848) 55 

To Miss Amelie Louise Rives. (New York Home Journal, 1849) 59 

Philip Pendleton Cooke. (Southern Literary Messenger, 

1856) 60 

* Appeared also in The Southern Literary Messenger. 
vii 



viii CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Proposed Sale of the Natural Bridge. (Southern Literary 

Messenger, 1849) 61 

To Intemperance. (Southern Literary Messenger, 1850) . . 63 

To Mrs. S. P. Q...., on Her Marriage. (Knickerbocker 

Magazine, 1850) 65 

A Dirge [for the Funeral Solemnities for Zachart 

Tatlor]. (Southern Literary Messenger, 1850) 67 

Invocation. (Southern Literary Messenger, 1850) 68 

To Jenny Herself. (Southern Literary Messenger, 1850) . . 70 

Jenny Lind. (Southern Literary Messenger, 1851) 71 

A Retrospect of 1849. (The Literary World, 1850)* ... 73 

Sonnets to Winter. (Southern Literary Messenger, 1851) . 76 
I. Old Wine to Drink 
II. Old Wood to Burn 

III. Old Books to Read 

IV. Old Friends to Love 

The Window-Panes at Brandon. (Southern Literary Mes- 
senger, 1851) 79 

To Bulwer. (The Literary World, 1851)* 81 

To One in Affliction. (Southern Literary Messenger, 1851) 82 

Violante. (Southern Literary Messenger, 1852) 84 

To (Southern Literary Messenger, 1852) 86 

Benedicite. (Southern Literary Messenger, 1852) 87 

Unwritten Music. (Southern Literary Messenger, 1852) . . 88 

Webster. October 24, 1852. (Southern Literary Messenger, 

1852) 90 

A Letter. (Manuscript) . 92 

"Brightly, with the Elfin Train Attended." (Southern 

Literary Messenger, 1853) 96 

L'Envoi. (Southern Literary Messenger, 1851) 98 

The Brave. (Southern Literary Messenger, 1853) 99 

Autumn Lines. (Southern Literary Messenger, 1853) .... 100 

* Appeared also in The Southern Literary Messenger. 



CONTENTS ix 

PAGE 

The Exile's Sunset Song. (Southern Literary Messenger, 

1853) 103 

"Ah! Futile the Hope." (Southern Literary Messenger, 

1853) 106 

Mt Mubkay. (Southern Literary Messenger, 1857) 108 

The Rhine. (Southern Literary Messenger, 1854) 110 

A Souvenir of Zubich. ("Across the Atlantic," 1855) . . 112 

The Postilion of Linz. (Southern Literary Messenger, 1855) 114 

Linden. (Southern Literary Messenger, 1855) 116 

A Picture. (Duyckinck's Cycloposdia of American Literature, 

1855) ; 118 

A Legend of Barber-y. (Undated Manuscript) 119 

In Forma Pauperis. (Southern Literary Messenger, 1855) . 122 

Patriotism. (Southern Literary Messenger, 1855) 124 

Virginia. (Southern Literary Messenger, 1856) 136 

To Paul H. Hayne. (Southern Literary Messenger, 1857) . . 145 

The Jamestown Celebration, 1857. (Southern Literary 

Messenger, 1857) 146 

Lou. (Southern Literary Messenger, 1858) 153 

Washington. (Southern Literary Messenger, 1858) 155 

Song. (Southern Literary Messenger, 1858) 165 

The Old Dominion Julep Bowl. (Southern Literary Mes- 
senger, 1858) 166 

" May-Day." (Southern Literary Messenger, 1858) 169 

Robert Burns. (Baltimore American, January 25, 1859) . . 172 

Hexameters at Jamestown. (Harper's Magazine, 1859) . 175 

The Motto. (Undated Manuscript) 179 

To E. V. v., 1859 180 

"Virginia, in Our Flowing Bowls." (Southern Literary 

r, 1860) 181 



Poesy: An Essay in Rhyme. (Southern Literary Messenger, 

1859) 185 

" Sing, Tennyson, Sing ! " (Southern Literary Messenger, 1859) 196 



X . CONTENTS 

PAGE 

"Once More the Alumni." (Written in 1860) 197 

MiSEREiMUS. {Harper s WeeUy, 1868) 202 

George Wythe Randolph. {The Southern Amaranth, 1869) 206 

University of Virginia. (Written in 1869) 209 

The Barber Boy. (Manuscript, dated November, 1844) . . 218 
Translations: 

Carcassonne — Nadaud. {Lipjyincott's Magazine, 1872) . 219 

The Garret — Biranger 221 

Where?— //erne. {The Galaxy, 1872) 223 

The King of Tipsy-Land — Beranger. {Southern Literary 

Messenger, 1849) 224 

College Verses: 

Autumn 227 

Verses of a Collegiate Historian 228 

The Inebriate . 228 

Despondency 229 

Retrospection 230 

Lines on the Death of William Henry Harrison . 230 

The Hour of Separation 231 

Fugitive Thompsoniana: 

The Stowe Epigram 232 

pomponnette 233 

Roger Bontemps 233 

Beranger and Lamartine 234 

To Fanny 235 

The Southern Lyre 235 

Notes 237 

Index of Poems 245 

Index (General) 247 



BIOGRAPHY 



GETTING KEADY 



John R. Thompson, poet, editor and critic, was born Oc- 
tober 23, 1823, the son of John Thompson, a native of New 
Hampshire. His mother was Sarah Dyckman of New York, 
a descendant of Jan Dyckman who came to New Amster- 
dam from Benheim, Westphalia, about 1660, settled in 
Harlem, and established the ancestral home of the family 
on a site overlooking the old Bloomingdale Road. What 
remained of the large estate after frequent divisions — the 
house built about 1783 to take the place of the original 
structure which the British had burned, and four lots — at 
what is now Broadway and 204th Street, was presented to 
the city of New York in 1916, and is known as the Dyck- 
man House, Park and Museum. The house is in a class 
all its own, being the only farm-house on, Manhattan Island. 
With its broad gambrel roof, solid stone walls, large Dutch 
ovens in the kitchen, and narrow porch, it exemplifies the 
architectural modes of early New York. 

Thompson was born probably at the corner of Fourteenth 
and Main Streets in Richmond, Va., in the modest home 
over his father's store, where the family lived in the twen- 
ties. If not there, then in a house on Franklin, between 
Fourteenth and Fifteenth. The next home of the Thomp- 
sons was in Mayo Street, where John Thompson acquired a 
lot in 1839 and built two houses, one of which (No. 108) he 
occupied, while Mrs. Quarles, the poet's sister, lived in the 



xii BIOGRAPHY 

other (No. 106). Thence the family went to a house in 
Franklin between Eighth and Ninth in 1858, and soon 
after, to 802 East Leigh Street, where the poet, in a third- 
story front room, wrote nearly all the war poems on which 
his fame is securely based. 

His first experience of educational discipline was at a 
school in Richmond — on Broad Street between Ninth and 
Tenth — of which Hawkesworth and Wright were masters. 
No echo of "the sensitive, reserved boy" has come from 
school-room or play-ground. In 1836, in his thirteenth 
year, he was sent to Roger's preparatory school at East 
Haven, Conn., and remained eleven months. One of his 
sisters, Sarah M. Thompson (afterwards Mrs. R. S. Massie), 
was at a girls' school at East Haven at the same time; the 
other, Susan P. Thompson (Mrs. H. W. Quarles), being in 
fraU health, was kept in Richmond at Miss McKenzie's 
school, in which Rosalie Poe, sister of the poet, was a teacher. 
His parents, being of Northern birth, had, no doubt, con- 
nections which strongly inclined them to the East Haven 
schools. There the future poet wrote his first poem {To 
Fanny), a tribute to Mrs. William Munford. In 1840 he 
left his Mayo Street home and travelled by the James River 
and Kanawha Canal to Columbia, in Fluvanna County, 
and thence by carriage to Charlottesville, where he entered 
the University of Virginia at the beginning of his eighteenth 
year and the University's seventeenth session. He was 
"free to attend the schools of his choice, and no other" than 
he chose, the simple condition being that he should "at- 
tend at least three professors." 

Thompson "took" ancient languages, under Gessner 
Harrison, natural philosophy under William Barton Rogers, 
and mathematics under J. J. Sylvester, during the session 
of 1840-41; the following session, modern languages imder 
Charles Kraitsir, chemistry under John P. Emmet, and 



BIOGRAPHY xiii 

mathematics under Pike Powers. The names of all his 
professors are written large in the history of education. 
Dr. Harrison, at the age of twenty-one, was strongly recom- 
mended by George Long, the first professor of ancient lan- 
guages in the University of Virginia, as his successor, when 
he resigned and returned to England. Praise from Long 
was praise indeed, for this graduate of Cambridge who, at 
the summons of Thomas Jeflferson, came to Virginia to 
inaugurate the University, lived to become the recognized 
nestor of classical scholarship in England. The young 
Virginian abundantly justified Long's faith in him. Pro- 
fessor Rogers made the first geological survey of Virginia 
and afterwards founded the Massachusetts Listitute of 
Technology. Professor Sylvester was the first incumbent 
of the chair of mathematics in Johns Hopkins University, 
and was afterwards SavUean Professor of Geometry at Ox- 
ford. 

The selection of his "tickets" (as subjects or studies were 
called in that day) seems to point to designs on the degree 
of master of arts, the only non-professional degree then 
conferred by the University. 

Li the University were two societies organized for "de- 
bate and literary improvement." They exist today: The 
Jefferson, founded in the first session (1825), and the Wash- 
ington, dating from the eleventh (1835-36). Thompson 
joined the former. It is not known whether the fact that 
Poe had been a member of it influenced him, or why he was 
not on its roll the following session. The coveted honors 
of the society were the anniversary and the "final," or 
commencement, oratorships, and the final presidency. 
Thompson won none of these. Probably amateur debate 
and oratory did not win his liking or interest, and likely he 
had little skill in either at that time. In after years he oc- 
casionally appeared as a lecturer, "and always with sue- 



BIOGRAPHY 

cess," according to the testimony of a competent contem- 
porary critic. The pen, and not the platform, was his means 
of expression. An opportunity was at hand. The students 
pubhshed a magazine — The Collegian — to which he con- 
tributed verse, and perhaps prose. The editors diu'ing 
his first year at the University were Lewis M. Ayer of South 
Carolina, John S. Caskie of Richmond, later a member of 
Congress, John L. Marye of Fredericksburg, lieutenant 
governor of Virginia, Francis R. Rives of Albemarle, secre- 
tary of legation, London, and Robert E. Withers of Camp- 
bell, United States Senator and long time leader in Vir- 
ginia. The poems in The Collegian identified as his are: 
Autumn, The Inebriate, The Hour of Separation, Despon- 
dency, Retrospection, and Lines on the Death of General Harri- 
son. The Hour of Separation was a vale to his class-mates. 

There were many students to whom it was not necessary 
to say farewell ia a serious way, as they were from his home 
town, Richmond, and from coimties nearby. They main- 
tained contact with him after college days. Li Richmond 
were Judge John S. Caskie, Richard M. Heath, Dr. William 
P. Palmer, whose kindred tastes led to a very intimate friend- 
ship, H. Coalter Cabell, and Colonel William P. Mimford; 
in Carolina, Captain Sam Schooler and Judge Richard H. 
Coleman, of whom he used to tell innumerable contes assez 
droles; in Charlotte, Judge Hxmter Marshall; in Goochland, 
Colonel Julian Harrison; in Essex, Muscoe R. H. Garnett, 
who represented his district in the Congress of the United 
States and later in that of the Confederate States; in Peters- 
burg, Roscoe B. Heath, an adjutant in the Confederate 
service; in Albemarle, William C, Rives, Jr.; in Charlottes- 
ville, James C. Southall, afterwards of Richmond, where he 
edited The Examiner and The Enquirer; at the University 
of Virginia, Henry St. George Tucker, known as "Saint"; 
in Fredericksburg, John L. Marye; and in Norfolk, Pow- 



BIOGRAPHY XV 

hatan Starke, the witty physician. These and other friends 
of his college years became men of mark, and to many of 
them the State owed much. 

When Thompson returned to Richmond at the end of his 
second and last academic session, he seems to have decided 
on law as his profession. At any rate, he entered the law 
office of James A. Seddon, who, although not yet thirty, 
was a leader of the Richmond bar, and continued with him 
two years. In 1844, he returned to the University and at 
the following commencement, in June, 1845, received, as 
he wrote to Duyckinck, "the degree of Bachelor of Laws 
at the hands of the late Honorable Henry St. George Tucker, 
then professor of law in that institution." By this time Mr. 
Seddon had entered politics, and was soon elected to Con- 
gress. If Thompson had intended re-entering his office as 
a partner or in any other capacity, Mr. Seddon's absence 
from Richmond would probably have interfered. 

In after years Thompson occasionally visited the Uni- 
versity. Two pictures, in "flowing numbers," preserve 
some of his memories and disclose something of the serene 
dignity combined with persevering solicitude with which 
Ahna Mater follows the career of her children. The first of 
these — achieving in poetry a genial counterfeit of pro- 
fessors and students of his day somewhat in the spirit of the 
"Charles Dickens and His Friends" group from the brush 
of Maclise — ^was made for the alumni dinner, July 4, 1860. 
The ode* was composed in Augusta, Ga., whither Thomp- 
son went in May, 1860, to edit The Sovthem Field and Fire- 
side. 

The other, and later. University poem was for an event 
which the president of the Alumni Association, the Honor- 
able A. H. H. Stuart of Staunton described as of more than 

* Page 197. 



xvi BIOGRAPHY 

ordinary interest. In his invitation to the poet he said: 
"Mr. Connor of New York has consented to deliver the ad- 
dress to the literary societies, and Mr. W. C. Rives of Bos- 
ton will speak to the alumni. To complete the circle of 
intellectual entertainment a strong desire has been expressed 
that you should recite a poem appropriate to the occasion 
— such a poem as we know you can prepare when your 
heart is engaged in the service." In compliance with the 
wish thus expressed Mr. Thompson, at the meeting of the 
alumni on July 1, 1869, read the noble ode beginning — 

Here at the well-remembered gates 
Through which we entered Learning's fane.* 

Of the poets educated at the University of Virginia Poe is 
ranked first, as in some respects he outranks any poet edu- 
cated in America. By general consent Thompson was 
given the second place at the time of his death. He prob- 
ably holds that position still, although closely pressed by 
later singers of true inspiration and lyric power, among 
them Lucas and the Gordons. His portrait by Mrs. An- 
drews is among those of "the mighty ones" at his alma 
mater, where, — as he wrote reminiscently of his student 
days, — it seemed to him: 

Then life was but a reeling sense 
Of something like omnipotence. 

* Page 209. 



BIOGRAPHY xvii 

n 

GETTING STABTED 

Obedient to the wish of others rather than to his own in- 
clination, he fitted up an office over his father's store at the 
corner of Fourteenth and Main Streets and offered his 
services to any who needed a lawyer. After two years in 
the profession, for which he seems never to have cared, he 
turned to literature, his real vocation, and remained its dev- 
otee to the end. 

Eighteen years measure with reasonable exactness his 
adult life in his native city; stretching, with but two inter- 
ruptions, from 1845 to 1864, from the Richmond of prosper- 
ous enterprises, of old-fashioned methods and ideals, of 
social institutions which had evolved under the influence of 
a society mindful of dignity and reserve as well as of more 
democratic virtues, to the Richmond become the Confeder- 
ate capital, familiar with the destructive hardships of war. 

In 1845 only astute students of popular currents predicted 
that "a storm was coming though the winds were still." 
There were many such prophets, but the yoimg law gradu- 
ate was not one of them. He looked forward to nothing 
more tragic than occasional encounters in legal forums. 
That dreams of Uterature and society were with him more 
persistently than thoughts of plaintiff and defendant will 
not excite the wonder of those who are well enough informed 
to disregard the ignorance almost amounting to sectional 
arrogance which was blind to anything like intellectual com- 
petency in the South and denied to Virginia any but a 
negligible dignity as a contributor to the literature then 
making in the United States. There were writers who 
richly merited esteem. The romancer was diligently cast- 
ing his spell. The pages of The Southern Literary Messenger 



xviii BIOGRAPHY 

bear witness to the fact, and the novels of John Esten Cooke 
prove it, for Cooke was the Sir Walter Scott of Virginia, re- 
producing the elder society of the ancient commonwealth in 
pictures full of charm. Contemporary anthologies neglected 
the Virginia poets, though there were singers indubitably, 
and good ones; and overlooked the achievements of our 
dramatists, essayists, humorists, historians, because, un- 
willing to look at all, they were ignorant of what the men 
and women of genius had done imder the Southern Cross. 
To this ignorance there is more than one incidental refer- 
ence in the important Cambridge History of American. 
Literature, in which Southern writers of that period are 
treated with insight and fairness. 

There was one thing which was not ignored. The pres- 
ence in Richmond of a society of unsurpassed worth and 
fascination has been always and everywhere conceded. No 
salon was there, as no need existed in the South for the kind 
of leadership and opportunity for social expression that the 
salon alone provided for intellectual France. Social clans 
existed in an unconscious unity and cooperation which made 
up a social order of the fit and qualified, the members of 
which were well defined by their servants as "the qual- 
ity." A list of "those present" at one of the ante-bellum 
receptions or drawing-rooms republished from the society 
columns of the day would contaui the names of men and 
women whose families had won and honored a permanent 
place in the annals of the State. Society, with all its real 
and imagined sins upon it, added lustre to the Common- 
wealth, and in the dark days of 1864-65, when hope had 
waned, saved the people from despair. Its spirit and ser- 
vice should never be forgotten and cannot be over-lauded. 

The atmosphere of society was necessary to Thompson, 
and was familiar to him in Richmond, as it became years 
afterwards in London and Paris. His special friends were 



BIOGRAPHY xix 

the Pegrams, Stanards, Cabells, Rutherfords, Munfords, 
Andersons, Morsons, and others of that type. He was 
well-fitted for it by his ingratiating good nature and charm 
of manner, and was recommended by his wit, humor, and 
indeed by his literary achievements, for he had returned 
from the University a humanist of some mark and a poet 
famous on its campus. He quickly became the poet lau- 
reate of his city and its minstrel in every hall of mirth and 
banqueting where the acclaimed and the great sat with 
"knife in meat and wine in horn." He was the poet chosen 
to voice their emotions when Webster came, when G. P. R. 
James departed, the Prince of Wales visited, and the Wash- 
ington Monument was unveiled. 

Thomi>son benefited much intellectually by this side of 
Richmond life, but he gave as much, perhaps, as he received, 
if the effective friendship of Mrs. Stanard does not pull the 
balance down against him. She admired his literary ac- 
complishments, and in a measure was his Egeria, as she 
herself was a woman of brilliant intellect whose keen yet 
sympathetic criticism he constantly sought. Her home — 
now the Westmoreland Club — ^was a social and intellectual 
centre, and during the Civil War it was perhaps the near- 
est approach to the French salon on this side the water. 
The President and Mrs. Davis, cabinet officers and their 
wives, senators and representatives, judges, famous gen- 
erals — the Slite of the whole South — constantly thronged 
her drawing-rooms. Her manners were gracious and cor- 
dial and her tact the exquisite tact of a generous, loving 
heart. During her beneficent reign Richmond changed 
greatly. In the beginning it was placid and unconsciously 
happy, except when a political convention or a partisan 
campaign stirred the politicians, or a duel due to a caustic 
editorial or a vitriolic philippic ended in the mortal wound- 
ing of^a Pleasants, and set the streets agog before breakfast; 



XX BIOGRAPHY 

but finally it was grimly facing war, heariag the tumult of 
battle, or, in quieter moments of hunger and suffering, 
greeting Confederate officers and soldiers in the streets with 
brave, unbetrayiag faces or entertarning them with im- 
diminished esprit at starvation parties where they could 
dance even if there was nothiug to eat. 

It was in the beginning of this momentous decade and a 
half that Thompson bought The Southern Literary Mes- 
senger. Specifically, it was in October, 1847, and the No- 
vember number was the first issued under his editorship. 
The Messenger was then thirteen years old. It was the 
literary chUd of Thomas W. White, and was born in August, 
1834, in his job printing office over Anchor's shoe store, 
opposite the old BeU Tavern, at the corner of Fifteenth and 
Main Streets. Fenimore Cooper, Washington Irving, John 
Pendleton Kennedy, John Quincy Adams and others on the 
literary crest of the time augured a distinguished and use- 
ful future for The Messenger. 

Five editors preceded Thompson: James E. Heath, 
1834-35, who followed literature as an intellectual interest 
and not as a calling; E. V. Sparhawk, 1835-36, with whom 
editing, for which he seems to have been well-equipped, was 
something of a "side line"; Poe, 1836-37; Matthew Fon- 
taine Maury, "pathfinder of the seas," and some unrecorded 
iacmnbents, 1837-43, and Benjamin B. Minor, 1843-47, from 
whom Thompson acquired the magazine. 

In the meantime The Messenger had moved twice. It was 
probably the year before he died that Mjr. White transferred 
it from its birth-place to the Museum BuUding on the south- 
east corner of Capitol Square, where Franklin Street runs 
up to it. The Museum was a large structure of two stories, 
with two long rectangular rooms and smaller ones in front 
on each floor. The first floor and a large upper room were 
the home of The Richmond Whig, edited by John Hampden 



BIOGRAPHY xxi 

Pleasants and Alexander H. Moseley, and the remainder of 
the second floor that of The Messenger. The legislature de- 
creed the demolition of the Museum Building, and Mr. 
Minor purchased a lot nearby, in Capitol Square, facing on 
Franklin Street, and erected there the future home of his 
magazine, and named it the Law Building. Here, on the 
second floor, with an eastern outlook, was the editor's sanc- 
tum, and on the third and fourth, the printing, binding, and 
mailing rooms. 

William Macfarlane and John W. Fergusson were in in- 
timate contact with The Messenger from its birth to its 
demise, in 1864. Macfarlane was White's foreman when 
the first number was printed and bound in August, 1834, 
and Fergusson was an apprentice in his service. They were 
with the founder when he died, and continued with Pro- 
fessor Minor as employees, until they bought his printing 
outfit and became his publishers and one of his tenants. 
To Mr. Thompson they bore the relation of publishers until 
January, 1853, when he made an arrangement by which, his 
publishers became the proprietors of The Messenger, and he 
their editor.* 

Thompson was twenty-four when he purchased The Mes- 
senger under the delusion that he could be both lawyer and 
editor of an important magazine at the same time. "It is 
not my intention," he promised the public, "to abandon my 
profession, but to continue as heretofore a practitioner of 
the law." It could not be done, certainly it was not done, 
for Thompson probably never again entered a coiu-t-room as 
an attorney. 

The Messenger was closing its thirteenth year. It seemed 
to Thompson that it had been the representative of South- 
ern taste and the medium of Southern feeling and opinion, 

* Minor, The Southern Literary Messenger, 176. 



xxii BIOGRAPHY 

calling into use gifts which otherwise, in the easy-going hfe 
of the people that insured its existence, would have made 
no contribution whatever. Silent lotus-eaters became vocal. 
The Southern reading world was aroused, amused, instructed. 
The young editor planned to keep it so. Intensely South- 
ern, the magazine should, however, never be partisan in the 
sense of "arraying one portion of the Union against the 
other" — ^already there were just two sections! — it was 
North and South in the United States, as around the world 
in history. "Its province shall be," he announced, "to re- 
gard the Republic of Letters as an indissoluble confederacy, 
recognizing no landmarks or barriers of division, but united 
together as a literary brotherhood by sympathies of a kin- 
dred nature and a community of taste, sentiments and 
pursuits." 

Thompson was the kind of man to knit close and strong 
attachments. He made friends wherever he went, and 
kept them. His manners were easy and ingratiating, his 
dress in good taste, his blue eyes steady, engaging and of 
"friendly" expression. His qualities of mind and heart 
enabled him to add materially to the previous record of The 
Messenger in discovering and encouraging yoimg writers. 
It was in his magazine that Philip Pendleton Cooke's name 
became famous and linked forever with that of Florence 
Vane; that his young brother, John Esten Cooke, displayed 
his genius for story-telling; that Susan Archer Talley, Poe's 
girl friend, was permitted to find her public and sing to it 
in a voice worthy to be heard with Cooke's; that James 
Barron Hope had the apprenticeship to the lyre that ended 
in something very like the title of laureate of Virginia; that 
Margaret Preston, born in Pennsylvania but made in Vir- 
ginia, if poets are ever made, won fame with both prose and 
poetry; and that George W. Bagby, who afterwards raised 
his pseudonym Mozis Addums to the power of a synonym 



BIOGRAPHY xxiii 

for spontaneous humor racy of the soil of Virginia, was first 
given recognition. Hayne the exquisite sonneteer and Tim- 
rod the maker of beautiful lyrics found their way into liter- 
ature, and the verses of the younger Legare went forth to 
the Southern world, by way of the pages of The Messenger, 
as did romance and poem from the pen of the veteran Wil- 
liam Gilmore Simms. It was Thompson who first gave a 
hearing to Donald G. Mitchell (Ik Marvel), whose Reveries 
of a Bachelor had been the rounds of the editors and elicited 
only rejection slips until the Richmonder welcomed the 
classic; and it was he who was the first to discern the genius 
of the whimsical Frank R. Stockton.* 

To the list of those who at one time or another were glad 
to be iQcluded among The Messenger's contributors can be 
added the names of G. P. R. James, Thomas Dimn English, 
Park Benjamin, Henry T. Tuckerman, Thomas Bailey Al- 
drich, John Pendleton Kennedy, Henry A. Washington, 
Monciwe D. Conway, Judge Joseph G. Baldwin, Dr. F. O. 
Ticknor, and many others scattered throughout the coun- 
try; but after all it was the Southern writers who made 
The Messenger what it was characteristically. They were 
not great masters, but they were true to their ideals, fate- 
fully human; and their admirers were content to do without 
organ tones as long as they gave them sincere, tender lyrics. 
With these voices Thompson's mingled, often with a beauty, 
always with a fervor, that commanded his contemporaries, 
that arrest us to-day, and will enlist posterity. Few writers 
of his day made as popular an appeal as Thompson did 
with less than a dozen poems known as his war pieces — 

*Mr. Thompson was the first editor of a magazine to accept a 
story by me. He it was who, on my entrance into the field of lit- 
erature, took me by the hand and bade me welcome. — Frank R. 
Stockton, in the University of Virginia Alumni Bulletin, August, 
1899. 



xxiv BIOGRAPHY 

The Burial of Lataniy General J. E. B. Stuart, Ashhy, Lee to 
the Rear, Music in Camp, The Battle Rainbow, and two or 
three others. 

Even these fine things would have been neglected after 
the passing of the generation in which they were written 
had it not been for Southern anthologies that appeared at 
the end of the war, those deliberately sectional collections 
like Simms's The War Poetry of the South, Miss Brock's 
Southern Amaranth, and Miss Mason's Southern Poems of the 
War. These bring to us the tumult of battle and the lights 
and the shadows of life in the tense days of 1861-65 more 
vividly than any other thing ever does except the strains of 
Dixie or the sudden sight of a sword or a stained uniform 
piously kept for its memories of one who joined the 

Glittering lines of steel and gray 
Moving down the battle's way 

and never came back. 

Thompson and his feUow singers were the voice of that 
tragic period; they expressed as no other voice has done, 
the pride, aspiration, fear, love, sacrifice, and the social 
consciousness and sensitiveness of their generation. The 
Messenger was their medium, and because of its faithful 
recording of these emotions it had a more devoted con- 
stituency than any other literary publication of their time. 
The Atlantic Monthly and Harper's Magazine were arriv- 
ing* — the ywere not yet in their teens when he left The 
Messenger — but in their poetry they were farther away from 
the popular feeling in their area than the Richmond monthly 

*When Thompson took over The Messenger (1847), the only lit- 
erary magazines published in America that could be thought of as 
competitors were the American Whig Review, which died in 1852, 
aged seven, the KnicJcerbocker, and Godey's Lady's Book. At the 
close of his work (1860), Harper's Magazine was ten and the At- 
lantic four. 



BIOGRAPHY XXV 

was from the emotions of its constituents. In other re- 
spects Harper's was more representative of the national 
than of a sectional aspect of life, and thereby lost intensive 
power while gaining extensive vogue. There was nothing 
national about The Messenger. Its poems had about them 
the odor of the jasmin and the magnolia of the groves that 
embowered Southern mansions and cottages. But it would 
not be a pleasant task to read all of them at this day. Not 
all of them were written by Thompson, Hope, Hayne, 
Simms, Ticknor, Ryan, and lyrists of like genius, and the 
singers of that time were not of the fashion demanded in 
ours. Griswold's Poets of America — the large majority of 
his poets sang far from the palm — is a charnel house of the 
forgotten, but it was counted representative sixty years ago. 
Changing conditions of life resulting from the flight of time 
promote disputes over literary judgments, which concern 
life; but about some things there is agreement. The accord 
in one respect is formulated by a native of New England: 

The literature of the Southern school, although scant in 
amount, is, at its best, of fine quality; and the writers have 
more in common than those of New York. The cavalier 
blood, the aristocratic structure of society, the semi-tropical 
climate, all tell in the literattu*e, which has more local pride, 
more passion and color, more love of beauty for its own 
sake.* 

in 

NOT GETTING ON 

Thompson did not confine his energies to The Messenger, 
but oflFered some of his literary wares to other publications 
— The Literary World, edited by the Duyckincks, The Inter- 
national, edited by Griswold, and The Knickerbocker, edited 
by Clark. The Duyckincks included him among the au- 

* Bronson, A Short History of American Literature, p, 152. 



xxvi BIOGRAPHY 

thors admitted to their Cydopoedia of American Literature, 
and Dr. Griswold, unjustly critical of Poe, was appreciative 
of the younger poet's character and endowments. 

Editors and authors were not well paid in those days, 
when they were paid at all. Longfellow alone of American 
poets received "reason for his rhymes." Cooper and Irving 
were able to live by their pens, but they were exceptional. 
Hawthorne was wretchedly paid for his work imtil after 
The Scarlet Letter. Other Northern and Eastern writers 
fared worse. In the South the field offered a very poor 
harvest indeed, for reasons that need not be rehearsed here. 
There no genius, however transcendent, could live by song 
alone, and Simms, in industry and versatility as in culture 
and poetic gifts the superior of Cooper, was alone in his 
ability to win a comfortable income from his productions. 
Poe could not sell his poetry, and for his stories received at 
best, four dollars "a Graham page" — about three dollars a 
thousand words — and he was perhaps the best paid creator 
of short fiction in the forties. A writer in the New York 
Literary World, comparing American with English com- 
pensation for manuscripts, found the Englishman's guinea 
shrank to a dollar in New York. 

In a letter to Griswold, December 2, 1851, Thompson pic- 
tured the beginning of a phase of his life which persisted 
through two decades: 

. . . The Messenger is almost "gone." I look into the 
future to see nothing but disaster; my affairs are really so 
much embarrassed that the sale of my library hangs over 
me like some impending doom, and with no coryphaeus of 
the red-flag fraternity like Keese to "knock down" my 
darlings. Four years of hard labor find me in debt, my 
small patrimony exhausted and myself utterly unfitted for 
any sort of employment. I have followed the wiU-o'-the- 
wisp, literary fame, into the morass, and it has gone out, 
leaving me up to the arm-pits in the mud. Eh, bien ! I 
snap my fingers and whistle care down the winds ! 



BIOGRAPHY xxvii 

In the Spring of 1859, a year before his resignation of the 
editorship of The Messenger, Mr. Kennedy had suggested 
the possibility of Thompson's appointment to the headship 
of the Library of the Peabody Institute, in Baltimore. He 
was strongly endorsed. Edward Everett and Longfellow 
were among those who sent letters in his behalf, and there 
was commendation from many eminent Virginians. The 
matter was still open when, in March, 1860, he was offered 
the editorship of The Southern Field and Fireside, at a salary 
of $2,000. He wrote Kennedy, March 15, 1860: 

I accepted the Georgia overture under a strong compulsion 
of debt and the res aregusta — not Augusta. My life has not 
been a fortunate one. My father — the most indulgent of 
fathers — who at one time was independent, worth his hun- 
dred thousand dollars, has been impoverished. The Mes- 
senger which I took in better days, has proved a dead loss 
to me — ever so much money sunk and twelve years of early 
manhood spent unprofitably in maintaining it. At thirty- 
six I must commence life anew. Here comes a gentleman of 
means, who has successfully (as he thinks) established a 
Southern Literary weekly — which he hopes to remove after 
awhile to Richmond as a more desirable point of publica- 
tion — and offers me a salary to conduct it, greater in amount 
than any year's earnings I have ever made by miscellaneous 
scribble for this, that and the other newspaper and maga- 
zine. The amount of work I am to do is actually less than I 
have had to perform for a single journal with which I have , 
been connected. There is at least a doubt whether I shall 
obtain the honorable and comfortable position which you 
so generously wish me to fill. Now, between duns and 
drudgery what could I do but accept the certain offer? I 
have not failed to weigh the dSsagrimens — the instability of 
Southern enterprises — the provincial life — the comparative 
obscurity of the situation — the remoteness of Georgia from 
my dear friends here and elsewhere — the more glowing sun, 
— and other unpleasant etcetera. But I leave the whole 
matter with you, my dear friend, begging that you will par- 
don so much inevitable egotism, and most gratefully ac- 
knowledging your kind intentions in my behalf. 



xxviii BIOGRAPHY 

What he received for editing The Messenger is not dis- 
closed. Dr. Bagby, who succeeded him, in 1860, said in his 
vale (January, 1864): "It may excite surprise, and may no 
doubt sound laughable, when we state that, in times of 
peace, the editor's salary was but $300 — a pitiful sum, truly, 
which was increased during the past year to $400, or, allow- 
ing for present depreciation, just $20 in coin, for editing the 
leading, and, in fact, the only Southern Magazine, for a 
year." Poor pay in depreciated currency was the order of 
the day ia the capital of the Confederacy ia 1864. 

Thompson's connection with The Messenger ceased with 
the May number of 1860. On the evening of the 15th of 
that month a complimentary dinner was given him. The 
tender was signed by William H. Macfarland, Arthur Mor- 
son, Thomas H. Ellis, R. W. Haxall, R. W. Gary, P. T. 
Moore, G. W. Randolph, Thomas H. Wynne, J. Thomp- 
son Brown, William H. 'Lyons, Jbhn Howard, Archer An- 
derson, S. T. Bayley, J. Addis Pleasants, Samuel J. Harri- 
son, W. W. Grump, Gharles Bell Gibson, Thomas P. August, 
James Lyons, Andrew Johnson, William H. Haxall, D. N. 
Walker, James A. Jones, John Pegram, R. T. Daniel, G. R. 
Barney, R. B. Haxall, R. B. Heath, William Munford. 
Among the invited guests were John Esten Gooke, Esq., 
Dr. H. G. Lathan of Lynchburg, and Dr. Bagby. 

It was very hard to leave Richmond, for he had mingled 
in its life intimately and formed ties that were very dear to 
him. Whatever life in Augusta might profit him he could 
not believe it would offer a group of friends of the fine type of 
those who sat around the table at Zetelle's that notable eve- 
ning in May. 

He reached Augusta three days after the Richmond dinner 
in his honor, and eight days later he reported his surround- 
ings to Kennedy. The climate gave him some anxiety. 
The heat was overpowering, but with his "uniformly tern- 



BIOGRAPHY xxix 

perate habits and daily use of the cold bath" he hoped to 
maiataia his health. He did not like Augusta, and would 
not have chosen it as a residence, "even for a sweetheart's 
sake." "You," he told his correspondent, "could not exist 
here four weeks. Think of Rome without its ruins, Rome 
without Coliseum or Baths of Caracalla or Borghese Villa, 
Rome St. Peter's-less, Rome, as General Jackson said, 'in 
Georgy,' and fancy yourself a resident of the town for the 
summer months!" He arranged with Mr. Gardner, owner 
of The Southern Field and Fireside, to release him, if the li- 
brarianship should be offered to him. "I would acquaint 
you at the earliest moment with the fact that my inclina- 
tion tends more strongly than ever toward Baltimore." 

By the middle of August he was in Richmond, under a 
physician, but hoping to be strong enough soon to proceed 
to Newport, where he believed Mrs. Stanard to be sojourn- 
ing. Two weeks later he was still there, still an invalid, but 
still determined to go North. In October he was in Au- 
gusta, early in the following January in Richmond, his con- 
nection with The Southern Field and Fireside evidently sev- 
ered, a few days later in New York, and by the end of the 
month Kennedy's guest in Baltimore. It is probable that 
his visit to New York was in search of employment, and 
that he conferred with Kennedy on that subject, for in his 
letter of February 9, sent from Richmond, he shows his 
anxiety to have something to do. "Did you address a 
note, as you so kindly proposed to do, to the proprietors of 
the American ? I am here entirely without occupation and 
feel a miserable loss of self-respect in idleness. If they 
would consent to receive letters from Richmond during the 
convention it would at least give me some employment for 
the time being." 

Kennedy's efforts in his behalf brought him an oflPer of a 
position on the Baltimore American in May. The war was 



XXX BIOGRAPHY 

at hand. Lincoln had issued his call upon Virginia for troops. 
Under other circumstances the offer made him by Mr. Ful- 
ton of the American would have given him great pleasure. 
He regarded his life as a failure and had eagerly sought an 
opportunity to "start over." The lure of assured com- 
petence and comfort was strong, but it was subordinate to 
other motives. He announced his decision to Mr. Kennedy: 

I write to offer you my sincere thanks for your interfer- 
ence with Mr. Fulton in my behalf. I wrote to him yester- 
day stating the reasons why I could not entertain his 
proposition to become connected with the American. Our 
town is threatened with invasion by Lincoln's armies — my 
parents, my widowed sister, my home is here, every con- 
sideration, of filial and patriotic duty would oblige me to 
remain and share in the fate of my native Virginia, apart 
from any convictions I might entertain of the original folly 
of secession.* 

Thompson's physical condition was so low he could not 
enter the military service of the Confederacy. He became 
Assistant Secretary of the Commonwealth and as such had 
a share in the administration of the State Library, under the 
librarian, George W. Munford. He has been credited with 
aiding Governor Letcher in the preparation of his state 
papers; and he was known as the contributor of the letters 
to the Memphis Appeal under the nom-de plume of "Dixie.'' 
Since returning from Augusta in the early winter of 1860 he 
had embraced every opportunity to earn an income with his 
pen. He was connected with the Richmond Record in 1863, 
but it had only a brief existence. The Index, the Confeder- 
ate organ in London, took a weekly letter from him. He 
contributed poems to the Richmond Southern Illustrated 
News, and was for a time its editor, as we learn from an 

* Letter to Kennedy, May 16. 



'. BIOGRAPHY xxxi 

unpublished letter of William Gilmore Simms, written in 
July, 1863. 

After his retirement from The Messenger he published 
some of his best poems — among them The Battle Rainbow, A 
Word with the West (sometimes under the title Joe Johnston), 
The Burial of LatanS, Ashhy, and General J. E. B. Stuart — 
but it is certain that the income from his verse was exceed- 
ingly small. 

The first half of the year 1864 was a period of deep dis- 
tress. Events were moving steadily toward Union success 
in the war. Northern troops, slowly, it is true, but surely, 
were nearing Richmond even then, a year before the sur- 
render. Butler was advancing up the Peninsula. The 
alarm at times was so acute that bells were rung to arouse 
and assemble the utmost of available force to oppose the 
conquerors. Local troops were hurried to the defense of 
the beleaguered capital until there were no men left to con- 
duct the most necessary business for the support of the 
population. No trains were arriving or departing. Mails 
that reached the postoffice remained there and none was 
sent out of the city, for all the clerks and other employees 
were in the trenches. The boom of cannon spoke daily of 
battle and the smoke of it — visible from the city — told them 
that the invader was at the threshold of the capital city. 

Worry over the tragic situation of the South, and his 
own condition, were rapidly reducing Thompson's never- 
abundant vitality. In June, 1864, the disease that ended 
his life nine years later seemed sure of its victim within a 
few months if its progress was not checked. His friends 
forced him to go away from the immediate presence of the 
awful struggle in the hope that his physical condition would 
improve. On the 20th of that month he went to the capital 
and drew his last allowance as Assistant Secretary of the 
Commonwealth. He wrote in his diary that day — "The 



\ 

xxxii BIOGRAPHY 

hour of parting from family and friends for an indefinite 
period of time comes rapidly, and feeble health conspires 
with the moral emotion to make me exceedingly wretched." 

Two days later he began his journey to the seaboard, in 
a Richmond & Danville train, via Raleigh and Goldsbor- 
ough, accompanied by his nephew Charles H. Quarles. 
The trip required several days, and it was two weeks after 
his departure from his native city that he sailed in the 
steamer Cape Fear, transferring to the Edith at Fort Fisher. 
By eight o'clock that evening the Edith was at sea, having 
passed safely the inner blockading squadron off the bar. 
Thompson slept that night on deck, on a bale of cotton. 
At daybreak they were chased by a steamer, supposed to be 
the Connecticut, the pvirsuit continuing nine hours. Later 
two other steamers tried to overhaul the Edith, but night 
came on and she escaped in the darkness. 

On July 8, three days after the departure from Wilming- 
ton, the traveller was in the harbor of St. Thomas, Ber- 
muda, where he transferred to the British mail steamer 
Alpha which sailed in the evening for Halifax. Thence the 
Asia bore him across the Atlantic. 



IV 

THE day's work THUS FAB 

Thompson had previously visited Europe, and had writ- 
ten a volume of sketches of travel entitled Across the At- 
lantic, or European Episodes, which was in process of 
pubUcation by Derby & Jackson when the publishers' estab- 
lishment was destroyed in the great New York fire of 1856. 

In 1863, while he was editing the Richmond Record, which 
soon passed away, he collected his own and Timrod's poems 
and sent them through the blockade for publication in Lon- 



BIOGRAPHY xxxiii 

don. As his first venture witli a book was brought to naught 
by fire, so his second one was probably frustrated by water- 
At any rate, the manuscript was never heard of again. 

When Thompson left the United States in 1864 he had al- 
ready done nearly aU the work upon which his claims upon 
the attention of posterity must rest. Of the poems known 
to have been written after May, 1864, Miserrimus (1868), 
and the poem read at the meeting of the Alumni at the 
University of Virginia in the summer of 1869, alone add 
anything to his fame. Lee to the Rear was mailed from 
London to Blackwood's in January, 1866, and was prob- 
ably written that winter, although it may have been com- 
posed before he left Richmond. There is no poem that can 
be called the product of his London environment. His 
fame was enhanced by his three known translations — Heine's 
Where ? Beranger's The Garret, and Nadaud's Carcassonne* 

Thompson was a poet in journalism and something of a 
journalist in poetry. Nearly all of his verse had, when pro- 
duced, the quality of timeliness, and to a large extent he 
found his motifs in notable current events. His inclination 
to timely annalism is well illustrated in Miserrimus, which 
was first published under the caption A Local Item — a very 
familiar title in that day when newspaper men were far 
advanced if they looked upon foreign news as competing at 
all with the records of local happenings. All of his Civil 
War pieces were of the timely type. More than a third of 
his lines were written to be recited on public occasions. 

* A friend in an article in The Evening Post, signed E. D., credits 
him with translating Victor Hugo's L'Homme Qui Rit, and with 
softening and suppressing with infinite tact and grace its grossness 
and absurdities, and making it actually readable by persons who 
would have been shocked by the naked indecencies of the original. 
Hayne wrote from "Copse Hill" near Augusta, Ga., October 4, 
1869, to iuquire if it was true that he had done this work for Put- 
nam's and hoped he had, "because the translation is wonderful." 



xxxiv BIOGRAPHY 

"The occasionals that he has thus written," it has been said, 
"could have been done as well by not more than two other 
men in the South, and better by none." No Southern poet 
— indeed no American contemporary — surpassed these no- 
ble lines which occur in the opening ode read at the unveil- 
ing of Crawford's Washington in Richmond: 

Not queenly Athens from the breezy height 

Where ivory Pallas stood. 
As flowed along her streets in vesture white 

The choral multitude; 
Not regal Rome when wide her bugles rolled 

From Tagus to Cathay, 
As the long triumph rich with Orient gold 

Went up the Sacred Way; 
Not proud basilica or minster dim. 

Filled with War's glittering files. 
As battle fugue or coronation hymn 

Swept through the bannered aisles, 
Saw pageant, solemn, grand, or gay to view 

In moral so sublime. 
As this, which seeks to crown with homage due 

The foremost man of time. 

The lyric touch was not lacking. The Picture — beginning 

Across the narrow, dusty street, 

I see, at early dawn, 
A little girl, with glancing feet. 

As agUe as a fawn. 
An hour or so, and forth she goes 

The school she brightly seeks; 
She carries in her hand a rose. 

And two upon her cheeks — 

won from a competent critic the verdict that it was "as 
piquant as Praed, as natural and unaffected as Mrs. Welby, 
as tender as Mrs. Osgood, and as true as Wordsworth." 
It is not a just cause of reproach that Thompson was not 



BIOGRAPHY XXXV 

national — that this Virginia-born son of Northern parents 
was simply Southern in his emotions and most of his themes. 
He was quite as American as Bryant, who was a little more 
so than Poe; or Longfellow, much of whose best work is a 
reflex of his studies in Scandinavian literature and of old- 
world ballad methods, or Lowell, or Whittier, who often 
represent narrow corners instead of great spaces in Amer- 
ican life, and will also remain to the end of their vogue 
provincial poets of intellectual biases. Thompson did good 
work in other fields, but his war lyrics have proved the 
true warrants of his fame. It is not too much to claim for 
him the first place among those that made the minstrelsy of 
the Confederacy their mission. Nothing that he wrote 
creates the passion for war; nothing of his — unless Coercion 
does — incites to martial ardor, to the march, the attack, as 
Timrod's Carolina: — 

The despot treads thy sacred sands ! — • 

but nothing in Timrod's war poems surpasses the tender 
beauty of Thompson's Ashhy, or the solemn, moving power 
of his Burial of LatanS. His poems of the war fill few pages, 
but many hearts. Compared with the war time poets of 
the North, Trent* finds with reluctance that "perhaps there 
is a slight and a nattiral preponderance of intensity in the 
lyrics of defiance and regret in which such Southern poets 
as John Randolph [sic!] Thompson, Dr. Francis O. Tick- 
nor, 'Father Ryan' and Mrs. Margaret J. Preston poured 
out their souls." He balances against these hopefully 
Henry Howard Brownell, Mrs. Ethelinda Beers, whose 
fame rests on All Quiet Along the Potomac, Julia Ward 
Howe, and Byron Forceythe Willson, any and all of whom 
Thompson easily outmeasures in lyric values. Nor is there 

* American Literature, 473. 



xxxvi BIOGRAPHY 

one for that matter among the Northern singers who ap- 
proaches the charm and worth displayed by the work of 
Ticknor, Ryan or Mrs. Preston; not one, indeed, who will 
be remembered at all except Mrs. Beers and Mrs. Howe, 
each for a single effort. Thompson's name is not held sus- 
pended out of engulfing oblivion by any chance association 
with a great name or a merely fortuitous incident, but by 
the circumstance of his being the interpreter, the voice, of a 
tense period and of the souls of some great men. He knew 
these men of might, the knightly kind. He spoke the South's 
thought of Ashby and Latane, and in his "ringing ballad" 
sent "Bold Stuart riding down the years." A part of their 
fame is his, a part of his is theirs: each without the other 
was immortal. 

While the hope that Thompson will live in the future 
must be based upon his poetry, his greatest service to letters 
and his times was performed in his capacity of editor. 
Nearly aU of the twenty-eight years of his life after leaving 
the University were spent in editorial tasks. Thirteen years 
were given in more senses than one to The Southern Literary 
Messenger, and five were spent in the employ of The New 
York Evening Post. He made occasional declarations of 
his ideals, as in his introductory discussion in his first num- 
ber of The Messenger, already quoted, and as in his "Edi- 
tor's Table" ten years later when he said: 

It is getting to be thought that a man may perhaps ac- 
complish as much for the South by writing a good book as 
by making a successful stump-speech; that he who con- 
tributes to the enjoyment of his fellow citizens by a lofty 
poem, or shapes their convictions by a powerful essay, is 
not an idle dreamer merely; and that the pen devoted to the 
treatment of subjects out of the range of politics and com- 
mercial activities is as usefully employed as the tongue 
which is exercised in the wearisome declamation of legislative 
halls.* 

* Southern Literary Messenger, XXV, 471. 



BIOGRAPHY xxxvii 

He stuck to his text to the end of his life's discourse, and 
by doing so succeeded to an extent in arousing the Southern 
muse to some consciousness of her opportunity and her 
power. His successor on The Messenger* in estimating his 
services, said, in 1860 :t 

When he took charge of it [The Messenger} he was but a 
boy just out of the University, his talents, his acquirements, 
his skill, at composition, were known only to a few intimate 
acquaintances. What guarantee was there that the maga- 
zine, then, as now, one of the first in the Union, would be 
conducted properly? What assurance had the readers of 
The Messenger that he upon whose youthful shoulders had 
fallen the weight which Edgar A. Poe, with all his genius 
and supreme critical ability, foimd no easy burthen, would 
prove strong enough to bear it? Let the pages of The Mes- 
senger during the past thirteen years be the answer. It is 
but the simple statement of fact to say that the arduous 
task of conducting a leading magazine has been accom- 
plished by Mr. Thompson with signal success. The un- 
known aspirant for literary honours in 1847 leaves The 
Messenger in 1860 a man distinguished in every part of the 
Confederacy, in the North scarcely less than in the South, 
as a poet, a scholar, a lecturer, an editor. 

There is no certain record of what he did while editing 
The Southern Field and Fireside in Augusta, or while con- 
ducting The Record in Richmond in 1863; and what he ac- 
complished with the London Index cannot be valued, even 
if it influenced American life in more than a temporary 
way, which is very doubtful, but there is no uncertainty 
when we come to his contribution in the five years of his 
association with William Cullen Bryant and Mr. Bryant's 
son-in-law, Parke Godwin, on The New York Evening Post. 
Stedman, who helped to advance him to this connection, 
and Godwin, who saw him daily and was necessarily fa- 
miliar with his performance, are witnesses who establish his 

* Dr. George W. Bagby. f Messenger, XXX, 467. 



xxxviii BIOGRAPHY 

title to high distinction. A quarter of a century after 
Thompson's passing, Godwin* wrote this appreciation of 
his editorial associate: 

Mr. Thompson was for some years a companion of mine 
in the office of The New York Evening Po5f— where he 
served as literary editor — and I am free to say that, in the 
course of a long and varied experience, I never met a per- 
son whom I admired more for his accomplishments as a 
scholar and his courtesy as a gentleman. 

Mr. Thompson was commended to us (though of this I 
am not entirely certain) by the late William Gilmore Simms, 
who was an intimate friend of IVfr. William CuUen Bryant, 
our editor-in-chief, and with whom he was in the habit of 
passiag a part of his summer vacations at Great Barring- 
ton, in Massachusetts. 

We were glad to receive the services of Mr. Thompson. 
His long experience as editor of The Southern Literary Mes- 
senger, his wide and varied cultivation, and his past in- 
timacy with Southern authors, such as Edgar A. Poe, John 
P. Kennedy, and J. Esten Cooke, rendered his assistance 
particularly valuable. 

The Evening Post devoted a large part of its space to 
literary criticism, and the diligence of Mr. Thompson was 
equal to every demand. His critiques were always intelli- 
gent, adequate and instructive. He was not one of those 
critics who suppose that their function consists in discour- 
aging literature by the severity of their judgments, but, on 
the contrary, he thought it consisted in favoring and fos- 
tering every sign of real nascent talent. There are many 
authors, now eminent, who in their youth got a helping 
hand from Mr. Thompson's kindly and discerning ap- 
preciation. 

He thus put into practice the philosophy of sympathy 
and support enunciated by Swinburne in his saying that he 
had "never been able to see what should attract man to 
the profession of criticism but the noble pleasure of prais- 

* Alumni Bulletin, VII, o. s., 62-63. 



BIOGRAPHY xxxix 

ing." In this respect he was unlike Poe, whose caustic 
justice "continued to attach to himself animosity of the 
most enduring kind." The fact that " he was versed in a 
more profound learning and skilled in a more lofty min- 
strelsy, scholar by virtue of a larger erudition, and poet by 
the transmission of a diviner spark," did not protect him 
from the envious obscure. 

There is not a trace of Poe's methods or performance in 
Thompson's work. His themes were outside the real or 
dreamed experience of a man of Thompson's type of mind 
and emotions, and his artistic performance, at its best, was 
far beyond him. 

Thompson met Poe first in the Spring of 1848. The 
latter had just emerged from a two-weeks' sojourn in Rich- 
mond riverside resorts of a low order, described with evi- 
dent disgust in Thompson's letter to E. H. N. Patterson.* 
In that condition he was not attractive to his younger 
brother in the muses. His testimony against Poe was the 
most respected of that adduced to justify the Griswold- 
Lowell-Willis biography. But while he disapproved of 
Poe's conduct, and did not become his imitator as a poet, 
he recognized and admired his great genius. No other 
critic who appraised his work in the year of his death mea- 
sured Poe's merits so accurately. This young editor of 
twenty-six wrote for his magazine by far the best con- 
temporary estimate; and it is by no means certain that 
any later literary demonstrator has seen more of the psychal 
force enveloped in this much dissected personality, or more 
keenly appreciated his mastery of the art by which it was 
expressed. 

* Edgar Allan Poe's Works, Virginia ed., XVII, 403. 



xl BIOGRAPHY 

V 

HIS LIFE IN LONDON 

In 1854, confiding the editorial direction of The Mes- 
senger to his friend, John Esten Cooke, the "Surry of Eagle's 
Nest" in later achievements, Thompson had gone abroad 
for a year of travel and recuperation. His wanderings 
took him to many parts of England, and thence to Bel- 
gium, Holland, the Rhine country, Austria and France. 
More prose than poetry came of his wanderjahr. In verse 
he did some parodies and skits of no great importance, but 
in prose he produced a series of "editorial letters" of much 
merit. Carefully revised, these composed the luckless 
volume, Across the Atlantic. 

Probably Thackeray decided Thompson to carry out his 
long cherished purpose to cross the Atlantic when that genial 
novelist had been his guest in the Spring of 1853, and at 
the office of The Messenger, then in the "Richmond Athe- 
naeum," or at his father's house in Mayo Street had met 
everybody worth knowing. On his arrival ia London the 
Virginian was warmly welcomed at the Thackeray home, 
in Onslow Square. Between him and gifted Anne Thack- 
eray, then a girl of sixteen, there grew up a friendship 
which was one of the happiest of his many attachments. 
To her, on the day of his death, two decades afterwards, he 
sent one of his last messages. 

On this first visit to England he had met many of the 
literati and other notable persons, and was now not with- 
out acquaintances. In the ten years between his visits 
(1854-1864) his pen had won for him an enviable reputation 
in London, where his war lyrics were known and appreci- 
ated; and this good will was enlarged when it became known 
that he was the Virginia correspondent of The Index who 



\ BIOGRAPHY xli 

had presented the cause of the Confederacy so persuasively 
as to win for it sympathy and respect. The years had, of 
course, taken away some things he desired: the greeting 
from Thackeray who was gone it would be a year the com- 
ing Christmas; the ambrosial nights with him at Evans's, 
the "Cave of Harmony" of The Newcomes, and intellec- 
tual hours with Macaulay, whom death had found at Holly 
Lodge reading Thackeray's Adventures of Philip. 

Almost from the beginning of the War Between the 
States there was a considerable Confederate colony in Eng- 
land, and a smaller one in Paris. Of the first James M. 
Mason, special Commissioner of the Confederate States of 
America to Great Britain and Ireland, was a conspicuous 
member until the Confederate Commission came to an end 
in 1863, and he was forced to withdraw, going to Paris, 
after which he was designated "Commissioner to the Con- 
tinent at Large." Official England was studiedly cool to 
the representative of the Confederacy, in support of its 
policy of strict non-interference, which Thompson satirized 
in his poem, England's Neutrality. Unofficial England was 
not neutral, but warmly sympathetic. Tennyson, Carlyle, 
and their entourage spoke their sentiments freely; society 
declared itself in its usual way by invitations, bazaars, 
and the like, and democracy by acclamation. There were 
many, and some notable, exhibitions of popular sympathy.* 

When Mr. Mason retired to Paris at the end of his Eng- 
lish mission, he found living there, at 16 Rue de Marignan, 

* " I was at the Mansion House last night," Mr. Mackay, of the 
great shipping firm of T. M. Mackay & Co., of Leadenhall Street, 
wrote to James Spence, the Liverpool banker, "and heard the Lord 
Mayor virtually recognize the South in the quietest and most in- 
offensive way that could be imagined." The Times report fre- 
quently indicates "cheering," "prolonged cheering," "great cheer- 
ing." 



xlii BIOGRAPHY 

good Virginia friends, Mr. and Mrs. Soutter and their two 
daughters, who installed him perforce in their home, from 
which thereafter Commissioner Mason's official dispatches 
to the Confederate State Department were dated. He 
frequently visited England because, as he explained, so- 
cieties were forming throughout the kingdom, headed by 
noblemen and eminent public men, who were endeavor- 
ing to bring about a recognition of the independence of the 
Confederate States, and he believed he ought to maintain 
contact and take advantage of every opportunity to serve 
his government. He was at 24 Upper Seymour Street, 
Portman Square, when Thompson reached London. The 
Virginian called without delay, and found old acquain- 
tances with Mr. Mason, and made new ones. He was par- 
ticularly pleased to see Captain James D. Bulloch of Georgia, 
a man of many adventures who had cruised in the seven 
seas as midshipman and then lieutenant in the old navy, 
who was commissioned Commander C. S. N., and was now 
in London as naval agent;* and also gallant Walker Fearn 
of Mobile, who had been sent to Europe by the Confederate 
State Department, first to Spain as Secretary to Commis- 
sioner Pierre A. Rost of Louisiana, and then to Russia as 
Secretary to Commissioner Lucius Q. C. Lamar of Georgia; 
and now, on his return to the South, he was seeing some- 
thing of London. 

Mr. Mason and his secretary, James Edward Macfarland 
of Petersburg, Va., who had been secretary of the Amer- 
ican legation at London before the war, were about to visit 
Scotland and Ireland, and Thompson gladly accepted their 
invitation to go with them. Their tour lasted a month. 

* Captain Bulloch furnished to the Confederacy the cruisers 
Florida, Alabama and Shenandoah, and the ram Stonewall. He vrrote 
the very valuable The Secret Service of the Confederate States in Europe. 
This staunch Confederate was the uncle of Theodore Roosevelt. 



BIOGRAPHY xHii 

Then for some weeks Thompson was exceedingly busy at 
the office of The Index in Bouverie Street, "getting the run 
of things," and writing editorials and American notes. 
The Index was a weekly paper of sixteen folio pages, about 
the size of Harper's Weekly, and not unlike it in appear- 
ance. Three of its pages were given to editorials. Presi- 
dent Davis was possessed by the belief— to the serious 
disadvantage of the military enterprise of his government, 
many believed— that England would abandon neutrality 
and recognize the seceding states as a confederated nation 
with a stable government. The Index was to promote this 
result, in the manner described by the following declaration 
of purpose repeated in each issue: 

The Index was established in May, 1861, m the darkest 
hour of Confederate fortunes, by earnest friends of South- 
ern Independence, with the distinctly expressed object of 
being the representative in English journalism, of a gal- 
lant and struggling people appealing to the world not only 
for political, but still more for moral recognition. Since 
accepting this great trust The Index has unceasingly labored, 
by the combined aid of English and of Southern writers, to 
enlarge and extend the common ground upon which two 
nations could cordially meet, which need only to under- 
stand each other in order to cherish the warmest mutual 
appreciation and lasting friendship. The chief, and almost 
the sole, difficulty has been, and is still, the callous indif- 
ference of the British Government on the one hand, and, 
on the other, the perplexity, to the European mind, of the 
unsolved and unprecedented problems involved in the 
management and education of four millions of the African 
race, intermingled with a population of the highest Cau- 
casian type. This difficulty could be met only by a liberal 
fairness to every shade of honest opinion, by an inflexible 
adherence to truth under all circumstances, and by a bold 
avowal of convictions, even though ill-received. The In- 
dex does not claim to be neutral, but it claims to be inde- 
pendent in the highest sense of the word. It is because it 



xliv BIOGRAPHY 

must reflect and appeal to, at one and the same time, the 
public opinion of two countries as yet only imperfectly ac- 
quainted that this somewhat unusual self-description is 
called for. 

The Index, through correspondents, and newspapers re- 
ceived in exchange, got news from all parts of the Con- 
federate States, and was the vade mecum of Southerners in 
Europe and their sympathizers. 

Until a day or two before Christmas, Thompson's leisure 
was given to social diversions. He dined at Harrington 
House, "the company being Lady Harrington, Lady Geral- 
dine Evelyn Stanhope, Miss Soutter, Mr. and Mrs. and 
Miss Eustis, Mr. Corbin, Colonel Fitzhugh and Mr. King- 
lake, author of the History of the Crimean War and Eothen"; 
attended a dinner party at Mr. Mason's; spent an evening 
with Carlyle at No. 5 Cheyne Row, and talked of General 
Lee, whom the author of Heroes and Hero Worship admired 
greatly; visited WooLner, the sculptor, in Cavendish Square, 
with Tennyson, "a quiet and simple mannered man who 
smoked a pipe and drank hot punch," and often met there 
Tyndall and Palgrave, and occasionally Robert Browning; 
took long strolls in Hyde Park with Fearn and Fauntleroy; 
was a day and night the guest of the Wortleys, at Wortley 
Lodge, Mortlake, and, returning in an open carriage with 
Mr. and Mrs. Wortley, experienced a London fog so dense 
that steamers could not make their usual trips on the 
Thames; dined with General and Mrs. George W. Randolph 
at their apartments in the Burlington, along with Mr. 
Corcoran, Commissioner Mason, Captain Fitzhugh Carter 
(son of Hill Carter of "Shirley" in Virginia), Captain Bul- 
loch and Allan Young, R. N., afterwards Sir Allan Young, 
the arctic explorer; — and with all this and more wrote 
probably all of the articles and paragraphs that filled the 
three editorial pages of The Index each week. Then, on 



BIOGRAPHY xlv 

December 23, with General and Mrs, Randolph, he took 
packet at Dover and crossed the Channel, which was in a 
stormy mood, to Calais, and proceeded to Paris, where he 
was welcomed cordially by Charles Walsh at his home in 
Avenue Gabriel. There, for him, the old year ended and the 
new began; in what manner these entries in his Diary tell: 

Dec. 27 — ^Dined at Eustis's, No. 45 Rue de la Ville I'Eveque 
— small but elegant dinner — Fitzhugh and myself the only 
guests. Eustis's mother, wife, and sister at the table. 

Jan. 1, 1865— Drove to Mr. F. P. Corbin's in the Fau- 
bourg St. Germain, where he lives in magnificent style. We 
had a delightful dinner. The guests were Mr. Slidell, Gen- 
eral and Mrs. Randolph, Commodore Barron, Mr. Josephs, 
Mr. Charles Stewart (son of the late Admiral Stewart of the 
Old United States Navy), and myself. The chiUy, dark 
day was in accordance with the feelings of all Confederates 
in Paris. It was impossible to disconnect the aspect of 
nature, so cheerless and forbidding, with the unhappy con- 
dition of our coimtry, nor to fail to wonder at the utter in- 
difiFerence manifested by the giddy, pleasure-loving Parisian 
with regard to the desolating war in America. The New 
Year opens for us in sorrow. God grant it may close in joy. 

He was soon back in London, busy again with his work 
and in quiet enjoyment of its social life. His circle of friends 
was growiQg, and intimate friendships becoming more in- 
timate. One of the dearest of his London friends — he al- 
ways referred to him as "My friend Lawley" — ^was Francis 
Charles Lawley, fom-th son of Lord Wenlock, at one time 
private secretary to Mr. Gladstone, whose wife was his 
cousin. As the Southern correspondent of The Times, he 
was a familiar figure at Confederate military headquarters, 
and enjoyed the confidence of Lee, Hampton and Long- 
street, and other Southern leaders. 

Thompson was frequently summoned to 39 Berkeley 



xlvi BIOGRAPHY 

Square, the home of Lawley's mother, the dowager Lady 
Wenlock. In the circle in which Thompson moved in his 
busy two and a half years in London were many other well 
known persons whose friendship he valued; among them 
Edward Bulwer, whom Lord Derby made a peer two years 
later; Owen Meredith, whose Lucile, published three or 
four years before, was to be seen everywhere; Moncton 
Milnes, recently created Baron Houghton; Millais, just 
then in the midst of his most notable achievements with 
the brush; the Thackerays, whose home in Onslow Square 
was a loved retreat, into which he introduced many of his 
Virginia friends; Macmillan, the publisher; Admiral Schenley 
of Prince's Gate, Byron's friend, who assured Thompson that 
his lordship was "a coarse, lubberly man," and that the 
Countess of Guiccioli was never pretty, even in her premiere 
jeunesse; the Archbishop of Canterbury; Hep worth Dixon, 
editor of the Athenceum; Shirley Brooks of Punch, destined 
to succeed Mark Lemon as editor of the famous weekly; 
Frederick Locker-Lampson, author of London Lyrics; Mow- 
bray Morris, editor-in-chief of The London Times; and 
Robert Chambers, who told anecdotes of Sir Walter Scott; — • 
and others of a hst too long to be fully set down here. 

Among men of letters his most intimate acquaintance 
was the old philosopher of Chelsea, who was nearing the 
end of his Life of Frederick the Great when Thompson g,r- 
rived in England. It was his custom to spend two or three 
evenings at 5 Cheyne Row each month, and at other times 
they met in the streets, or in Hyde Park, for quiet strolls. 
Occasionally he was the guest of the poet laureate. His 
Diary contains an interesting account of one of his visits 
to Farringford, an inviting picture of the manor and its 
surroundings, and a glimpse of the home-life of the Tenny- 
sons. 

The news from home was growing worse all the time. 



BIOGRAPHY xlvii 

Wilmington was captured; then Richmond fell. The en- 
tries in the Diary at this time reflect his distress: 

April 23 — The Observer of this morning contains the 
startling and dreadful intelligence of the surrender of Gen- 
eral Lee and his entire army. . . . Received a letter from 
my sister, dated April third, describing the terrible scenes 
attending the evacuation of Richmond. My books are 
burned as I had supposed, and my father has lost his all 
by the fire. This news, and the surrender at Appomattox, 
have wholly unfitted me for work. 

April 26 — Went to the Strand and remained all day writ- 
ing on The Index. About two o'clock the editor of The 
Standard [Captain Hamber] came in, bringing the startling 
news of Lincoln's assassination on the night of the four- 
teenth in the theatre at Washington by J. Wilkes Booth. 
Was greatly shocked and distressed to hear it, because I do 
not think a shameful murder can advance any good cause, 
and I fear the mind of Europe will be easily persuaded that 
Booth was prompted to commit the horrible crime by Con- 
federates. I was especially pained to learn that he pro- 
faned the motto of Virginia, "Sic Semper Tyrannis," by 
shouting it from the stage just before making his escape. 
When I returned to the West End I foimd the whole mighty 
metropolis in a state of the most intense excitement at the 
news. I have never before witnessed such a sensation in 
London. 

Thompson was disconcerted when Henry Hotze, the Con- 
federate commercial agent in London, informed him that 
the Confederate funds in Europe were in a state of bank- 
ruptcy and that The Index would probably be discontinued, 
for then, of course, his salary would be suspended. The 
paper did not long survive the war, but other employment 
was at hand, and he lingered in London. In spite of the 
wreck of his hopes as a Southern patriot he found life in the 
great city constantly yielding solace. His social accep- 
tance was just as cordial as when the Confederacy was be- 
lieved to be approaching its goal of independence. He was 



xlviii BIOGRAPHY 

still a welcome guest; weU-informed, cultivated, a gifted 
raconteur, a good cue at billiards, and a desirable partner at 
whist. But he was longing to return to Virginia. A friend 
wrote of him, with clear insight: "Virginian he is, Virginian 
he must remaia. Be his home where it may, let his taste 
and talents find fitting reward in what state they may, he 
shall not forget the beautiful city that gave him birth and 
the noble old commonwealth, which he has already hon- 
ored, and whom he will honor yet more in years to come." 
"I envy everyone going home," he wrote in his Diary. "I 
long to see dear old Virginia. I love her deeper for her im- 
poverishment. Her wasted fields seem more beautiful than 
this richly cultured England." When he could resist no 
longer he sailed from Liverpool on September 16, 1866, in 
the Cunard steamship Cuba, and after ten days of rough 
seas safely reached Halifax, and the end of the third phase 
of his life. 

THE LAST PHASE 

In many respects the years Thompson spent in London 
were the happiest of his life, and yet, when The Index sus- 
pended, he would have gladly returned to Virginia. He 
remained at No. 3 Clifford Street, Bond, to prepare Von 
Borcke's Memoirs of the Confederate War for Independence 
for publication in Blackwood's Magazine. He began on the 
Memoirs in June, 1865, and had the manuscript far enough 
advanced for the appearance of the first instalment in 
September. The serial publication was concluded in June, 
1866. In October of that year the work appeared in book 
form, in two handsome volumes. 

But this was not all that his pen was put to. Captain 
Hamber, editor of The Standard, engaged him to write a 



BIOGRAPHY xlix 

leader each. week. He became the London correspondent 
of the Louisville Journal and the New Orleans Picayune, 
writing a weekly letter to each. The Cosmopolitan was 
using his "leaders." He was writing for The Crescent Maga- 
zine, published in New Orleans by WiUiam Evelyn and 
edited by an Englishman named Flash. His large ac- 
quaintance with English and Irish editors held a door open, 
which it would have been profitable to enter — in a word, 
he was well started on his career as a writer, in London. 
Perhaps it would have been better if he had remained there. 

But there was the longing for Virginia, and the impulse 
to return probably led to self-deceiving. It was easy, and 
inspiring too, to think that the South was recovering from 
the paralysis induced by the war; that in Virginia atrophy 
was giving place to vigor, and that in Richmond, his home 
— to him still the capital of God's country — there was a 
demand for services such as he could render. He arrived in 
Richmond late in the autumn of 1866, and faced imexpected 
conditions. There was no place for him — ^no employment 
— among such of his old friends as remained. The Southern 
Literary Messenger was only a cherished memory, the last 
number was dated June, 1864, two years before his return. 
The Examiner was no more, and Hughes and Southall and 
Bagby were filling other editorial assignments, of which 
there were fewer than in earlier days. 

Thompson tiu-ned to the platform in his search for an in- 
come, and delivered lectures in Louisville, New Orleans 
and other large cities, on "English Jom-nalism" and "The 
Life and Genius of Edgar A. Poe," but with no intention, 
it seems, of abandoning journalism. Richmond had failed 
him, and the South, where his friends were, was not a 
promising field. He must have hesitated before tiu-ning his 
thought seriously to the North, and yet he did so in two 
or three months after his return from Europe. His friend 



1 BIOGRAPHY 

John Pendleton Kennedy was in Europe trying to recover 
his lost health, and Thompson had to make his way as best 
he could, unsupported by the Marylander or any other in- 
fluential person. In April, 1867, he wrote from Richmond 
to B. Johnson Barbour of Barboiu-sville, Va.: 

Having satisfied myself beyond all question that there is 
no career for me here, no hope of employment even, I am 
just on the eve of departure for New York, where I shall 
remain en 'permanence if the fates are propitious. I have 
nothing certain before me, and only go to "breast the 
blows of circumstance, and grapple with my evil star." 
The Bohemian life is dreary enough in the prospect of it, 
and my heart is sad almost unto breaking in sundering the 
tie that binds me to Virginia, but I must get to work and the 
sooner the better. 

He reached New York in April, 1867. What he did in 
the ensuing twelve months seems to be a lost story. It 
may be true, as some one has conjectm-ed, that he was for 
a part of that time employed on The Albion. He was lonely 
and unhappy, and probably scantily supplied with money. 
Money would have been very well, of course, but it could 
not have made another Richmond of the great city to which 
he was exiled. He missed the charm of drawing-rooms like 
Mrs. Stanard's, the cheer of wits like August and Gibson, 
the comradeship of men of genius like Bagby, McCabe, and 
Cooke, and the sweet intercourse and sympathy of the pa- 
ternal home in Leigh Street. Richmond, seven years be- 
fore, had seduced him into resigning the editorship of The 
Southern Field and Fireside, the most lucrative position he 
had ever held. The New York nostalgia must have been 
even more distressing, and with it went a lack of money 
acutely painful to a man of Thompson's tastes and pride. 

At the end of that year of discontent (April, 1868) he 
was in the employ of William Young, Thackeray's friend. 



BIOGRAPHY li 

and translator of Beranger, tlien publishing Every After- 
noon, successor of his Albion, a high class publication on the 
model of The St. James Gazette, and similar English jour- 
nals. Every Afternoon suspended after four weeks of un- 
profitable existence. 

William Gilmore Simms or Edmund Clarence Stedman 
and some other friend of the Virginian took some of his 
reviews to William Cullen Bryant of the New York Evening 
Post. Their excellence recommended him and he was given 
work, and after a short probation he was assigned to the 
important position of literary editor. The Evening Post 
took what Mr. Godwin himself described as a "supposed" 
"extreme position in the political controversies of the time" 
— by which he meant that The Post was firmly anti-South- 
ern — but Thompson did not compromise in order to be al- 
lowed to earn his bread. He frankly avowed his unchanged 
convictions, and was met with equal manliness on the 
part of his employers who assured him that nothing but the 
quality of his service would be scrutinized. 

His old, untiring enemy — consumption — began to dog his 
footsteps almost as soon as he was comfortably seated at 
the editor's desk, but he was unafraid, and did his work 
with a cheery good will. What was probably the last of his 
poetical moods to be expressed foimd a medium in Heine's 
beautiful Wo? — known, in English, as The Grave Song and 
The Wanderer: 

Where shall yet the wanderer jaded 

In the grave at last recline ? 
In the South, by palm trees shaded ? 

Under lindens by the Rhine ? 

Shall I in some desert sterile 
Be entombed by foreign hands ? 

Shall I sleep, beyond life's peril. 
By some seacoast in the sands ? 



Hi BIOGRAPHY 

Well ! God's heaven will shine as brightly 

There as here, around my bed, 
And the stars for death-lamps nightly 

Shall be hmig above my head. 

This translation was made in August, 1872. In the early 
months of that year Thompson had accompanied William 
CuUen Bryant to Nassau and Cuba, and written notes of 
travel to The Evening Post. They returned by way of 
New Orleans at Easter. The Picayune said, a year later, 
"It was but too painfully apparent that the shadow on the 
dial had already fallen for him." His friends in The Eve- 
ning Post office saw, as the year wore on, that he was los- 
ing ground, and in February, 1873, they sent him to Colo- 
rado. He remained until April 17. On that day he wrote 
from Denver to Mrs. Daniel Henderson, wife of one of the 
owners of The Evening Post: 

My dear, dear friend: 

I have been losing ground steadily beyond a doubt in the 
dreadful weather of high winds, chilling frosts and drift- 
ing snow storms of the past two or three weeks, and the 
doctors order me to leave Colorado. I shall go tonight in 
the train to Kansas City, Pullman sleeping cars, making 
many stops on the way to husband the little strength I 
have. I am in doubt whether to go first to New York or 
Virginia, but shall determine on the way and inform you. 
If I go to New York I shall come directly to 54th street 
[the Henderson home], trusting that you will make me a 
bed somewhere down stairs, for I cannot go up a single 
flight. I am wasted to a skeleton and am hardly able to 
dress myself. 

On the homeward joittney Thompson reached Kansas 
City in a condition that obliged him to call in a physician. 
He hoped that a short rest there would add to his strength 
and enable him to resume his progress eastward; but he 
grew feebler. Virginia was out of the question. He pru- 
dently telegraphed his friends of The Evening Post to send 



BIOGRAPHY liii 

some one to bear him company. James Wood Davidson, 
who was filling his position on The Post in his absence, 
joined him in Kansas City and took him to New York. In 
a letter to Mrs. Quarles, the poet's sister, Mr. Davidson 
told of the warm-hearted welcome at the close of his last 
journey: 

Arrived at New York, and at Mr. Henderson's — you 
know the rest. I had never met Mrs. Henderson before our 
arrival, but my heart was at once drawn to her by the 
womanly tenderness with which she received your brother 
— by the many things I saw she had prepared in advance 
for om* coming — by those gentle ministrations which woman 
only knows how to give — by tender touches of the hand — 
by soothing and hopeful words — -by a thousand nameless 
sweet offices that flow from woman's heart to those they 
love. Ah, my dear madam, had she been his mother she 
could not have been more attentive, more tender, more 
lovingly attentive than she was, and was uninterruptedly 
from the moment of our arrival until the end. My heart 
has thanked and blessed her a thousand times since for it 
all. Nothing — absolutely nothing — could have been done 
for his comfort that was not done, and done sweetly, lovingly. 

At Mr. Henderson's the excitement incident to reunion 
with his friends revived him, and he even sat up for a while. 
Retiring early in the evening of Tuesday, April 29, he slept 
fitfully. He was without any illusion as to his condition, 
and on Wednesday morning he sent for Mr. Stoddard and 
committed his literary interests to his care, confiding to 
him, The Home Journal relates, "his wishes in relation to 
the disposal of his manuscripts." His friend Davidson was 
with him the most of the day. He became unconscious at 
about four o'clock and remained so until he died. 

At half past four o'clock his friend, Mr. Coffin (Barry 
Gray), who had been among the first to welcome him when, 
shortly after the close of the war, he came to this city from 
England, stood beside his dying couch, where he remained 



liv BIOGRAPHY 

until he passed away. At that hour he was dymg and his 
respirations were slow and faint, and his pulse flickering 
with his ebbing life. Five minutes before his death the 
pulsation ceased, the breath grew shorter and shorter, and 
without a struggle or a tremor he entered that "bourne 
from whence no traveller retiu-ns," like one who "wraps 
the drapery of his couch about him and lies down to pleas- 
ant dreams." At exactly twenty-five minutes past five 
o'clock, on Wednesday afternoon, April 30, Mr. Co£Bn 
closed the eyes of one of the loveliest characters that earth 
has known.* j, 

Fvmeral services were held at Mr. Henderson's Friday 
afternoon (May 2). Among the friends and associates in 
literary employments who drew near the casket for a 
last look were Edmund Clarence Stedman, Richard H. 
Stoddard of The Aldine, William Cullen Bryant, Parke 
Godwin and family, Whitelaw Reid of The Tribune, Roger 
A. Pryor, Mrs. Mary B. Dodge of Hearth and Home, R. B. 
Coffin, better known as "Barry Gray," Judge Daly, James 
Wood Davidson of The Evening Post, Augustus Maverick 
of The Commercial Advertiser, formerly of The Post, Blair 
Scribner, Roswell C. Smith, and Richard Watson Gilder, 
all of Scrihner's Monthly, Mr. Durand, the art critic, and 
Professor Chase of The New York Herald. 

The Reverend Doctor Morgan, rector of St. Thomas's 
Episcopal Chiu'ch in New York, read appropriate selections, 
and the Reverend Doctor Noah H. Schenck, of St. Ann's, 
Brooklyn, spoke touchingly of the departed writer. "Mr. 
Thompson had been a familiar visitor of his family — almost 
an inmate of his house. He felt his death as a personal 
grief. He could think of no other individual whose char- 
acter, gem-like, possessed so many brilliant facets. There 
was a personal magnetism about him that made him win 
without wooing. He was not soullessly, intellectually, or 
politically ambitious. In fact he lived rather cloistered; 

* New York Home Journal, May 7, 1873. 



BIOGRAPHY Iv 

and the periphery of his life was the circumference of his 
affections." 

There was a little group from Richmond, made up of the 
poet's widowed sister, Mrs. Susan P. Quarles, his nephew, 
Charles H. Quarles, who had accompanied him to Wilming- 
ton on his departiu-e for Exirope in 1864, his brother-in-law, 
Mr. Massie, and his niece, Miss Massie. Immediately 
after the funeral the journey to Virginia began. 

The wanderer was now returned to his native city, Rich- 
mond. The day previous to the funeral there, the bar, the 
press, alumni of the University of Virginia, and many others 
met in the hall of the House of Delegates to prepare to re- 
ceive the returning Virginian with becoming ceremony. 
Governor Walker presided, and George W. Bagby, James 
Pleasants, James McDonald, Thomas H. Wynne and P. 
T. Moore reported resolutions fitly characterizing his genius 
and appraising his character and achievements.* 

As Dante from Ravenna came, 
Our poet came from exile — dead. 

On the day of his coming — ^the third day of May — ^from St. 
Paul's Church, where he had worshipped with his heroes, 
Robert E. Lee and Jefferson Davis, he was borne to Holly- 

* The Committee which met the returning poet at the Byrd Street 
Station was composed of leading citizens of Richmond: Judge B. 
R. Wellford, Col. William D. Coleman, Peachy R. Grattan, Gen. P. 
T. Moore, James Pleasants, Col. J. C. Shields, W. H. Haxall, Lewis 
Ginter, Dr. George W. Bagby, Col. James McDonald, Col. Thomas 
H. Wynne. Col. H. C. Cabell, Hon. A. M. Keiley, Major Baker P. 
Lee, James A. Cowardin, Judge Hunter Marshall, Judge W. W. 
Crump, Hon. James A. Seddon, Dr. Moses D. Hoge, Dr. W. P. 
Palmer, Hon. James Lyons, Hugh M. Stanard, Major W. B. Myers, 
Dr. R. Barksdale, Hon. R. T. Daniel, Col. W. P. Burwell, and M. 
B. Stanard. 

The services at St. Paul's were conducted by the Rev. Dr. Joshua 
Peterkin of St. James Church, assisted by the Rev. Dr. Moses D. 
Hoge of the Second Presbyterian Church. 



Ivi BIOGRAPHY 

wood and entombed in sight of the last home of another of 
his heroes, General J. E. B. Stuart. The granite shaft 
above him was the tribute of Northern and Southern friends, 
and bears the just estimate: — "The graceful poet, the bril- 
liant writer, the steadfast friend, the loyal Virginian, the 
earnest and consistent Christian." 

The day following his death there appeared in The Eve- 
ning Post an editorial appreciation of Mr. Thompson, at- 
tributed to William Cullen Bryant, which only a good man 
could deserve: 



It has rarely been our lot to be associated with a person 
who combined more completely the best characteristics 
of the Christian gentleman and scholar than John R. Thomp- 
son. Endowed with the warmth and quick sensibilities of 
a native of the South, a keen sense of personal honor, and a 
chivahous devotion to his friends and his cause, whatever 
it might be, he was yet so amiable in his disposition and so 
courteous in his conduct, that he made no enemies and won 
hosts of friends. No one, indeed, ever approached him 
without being impressed alike by his geniality, his integ- 
rity and his modesty. . . . He had read so variously, ob- 
served so minutely, and retained so tenaciously the re- 
sults of his reading and his observation that he was never 
at a loss for a topic and never failed to invest what he was 
speaking of with a rare and original interest. His fund of 
anecdote was almost inexhaustible, and his ability to il- 
lustrate any subject by apt quotation no less remarkable. 
The English poets and essayists seemed to be always at his 
fingers' ends, and, what is not usual with men of wide mis- 
cellaneous studies, he was as accvu-ate as he was various. 
. . . Not unaware of the certainty of his fate he yet sel- 
dom gave way to despondency or lost his interest in the 
great movements of life. It was because his character and 
tastes had rendered life agreeable to him in so many ways 
(despite the dark clouds that war and disease had gathered 
over it) that he desired to live; and no less because he had 
properly estimated its ends and issues that he did not fear 
to die. He went away reluctantly, for he left behind him 
some that were dependent upon him and many that loved 



BIOGRAPHY Ivii 

him well; but he went away peacefully, knowing where 
he had placed his trust for the future, and that the pas- 
sage which we who gaze upon it from this side call Death 
is to those who gaze upon it from the other side the Dawn 
of a larger and nobler activity. 

The poet was forty-six when, in 1869, Mr. Davidson 
made this pen pictvire: 

In person Mr. Thompson is a small and slender man of 
easy manner; dresses with marked taste; has an engaging 
and steady blue eye, and a voice low, earnest, and brisk, 
with a well defined emphasis in talkiag; converses well; 
wears American whiskers, of neutral, yellowish color; has 
hair darker, and thia, with an approach towards baldness. 

Benjamia B. Minor, Thompson's predecessor in the 
editorship of The Messenger, knew him best in the years of 
his active career in Richmond, years of the fourth of the 
five decades of his life. He was then, as later, indeed as 
always, "neat and prim and attentive to his dress and per- 
sonal appearance. His address was good, but rather studied; 
his conversation was pleasant, and he had some humor; his 
manner was respectful and unassuming, but painstaking 
and ingratiating. He was a man of cidture and aesthetic 
taste."* "He was fastidious ia his dress," writes t the 
daughter of V. C. P., in whose honor Benedicife was com- 
posed; "daiaty as a woman might be. I remember his 
pretty, big silk handkerchiefs in the days when such things 
were rare; and always there was cologne on them." In the 
Autumn foUowiug his death John Esten Cooke lovingly 
recalled his friend: 

He was small in stature and of delicate appearance. His 
eyes were dark and had a peculiar softness and brightness 

* Mr. Minor's letter quoted by Link, Pioneers of Southern Litera- 
ture, II, 389. 

t Private letter, January 10, 1919. 



Iviii BIOGRAPHY 

— ^the expression varying and reflecting every emotion. He 
had chestnut hair, curling naturally, wore a very heavy 
brown beard and mustache, and was extremely nice in his 
dress and careful of his personal appearance. Everything 
about him, indeed, was nice, graceful and finished, down to 
his handwritiog, which was a model of legibility and ele- 
gance. He was even criticised occasionally as exhibiting a 
tendency to foppery; but all about him was in the very best 
taste, and his manners only seemed peculiar perhaps from 
that instinctive refinement and courtesy which spring from 
association with ladies and cultivated persons generally, 
and the pursuits of the beUes lettres student. In his ap- 
pearance, bearing, and habits, he was essentially a gentle- 
man of the most refined tastes; and certainly his manner 
— ^with the exception of a slight reserve and ceremony at 
times — was delightful. He was the charm and delight of 
the circles — and they were the best — ^in which he moved; 
a fascinating raconteur — indeed, I may say that he was 
one of the very best "story-tellers," or relators of anec- 
dotes, literary or humorous, that I have ever known. For 
this he certainly had a distinct gift, and I have listened to 
him with silent delight. His anecdotes were chiefly humor- 
ous — of the character called "good stories" — and there 
seemed to be no end to them. In private, at suppers, at 
dinner parties, and everywhere with friends he aboimded 
in them, putting everybody in a good humor with his spar- 
kling witticisms and the point and finish of his discourse. 

I saw little of him during these sad latter days, and this 
chance memorial refers to him as he appeared in his earlier 
years, when fuU of health, impulse, ambition, and in the 
youthful flush of his faculties. I think of him always as he 
appeared then, and my outline belongs to this period. 
What delightful company he was in those remote years ! 
How his smiles, his laughter, his unfailing flow of pleasant 
chitchat drove away "the blues" if his friends were op- 
pressed by them! Leaning back in his comfortable chair 
in his office in the Law Building — it was a leather-covered 
arm-chair, and he wrote upon an elegant walnut table with 
a covering of green cloth — how his eyes sparkled, his ready 
laugh rang, his soft bright eyes lit up! Reading aloud in 
his rich sonorous voice — ^he was, after Thackeray, the most 
delightful reader I ever listened to — or standing and talk- 



BIOGRAPHY lix 

ing, cigar in mouth with a little of the petit maitre air, for 
he was young and petted by society, he interested you, 
made you laugh; you forgot the passage of time as you 
listened, and went away ia a good humor with yourself and 
all the world. . , . What impressed you most in him was 
this charming 'personality, the easy and graceful commin- 
gling of the litterateur and the man of society. In Paris he 
would have taken his place, as of right, among the attrac- 
tions of the literary salons and become famous among the 
wits of the wittiest city of Europe.* 

From these witnesses we learn that John R. Thompson 
was not a son of Mars. No hilt hung near to his hand, and 
he could not have had any standing with those who blus- 
tered and swore like the British Uncle Toby knew in Flan- 
ders. The laws of good taste were canons of concern to him, 
and he was in hearty accord only with those who respected 
them. He was "a good mixer," as we say now, in his own 
set, but he remained within its fellowship — and thereby 
hangs the tale that he was "sensitive and reserved." The 
tale has its moral, which must not be given too wide an ap- 
plication, for Thompson did not shrink from contact nor 
was the measure of his social self-revelations ungenerous, 
but the contrary. In the diversions of his circle he was an 
adept. He could make good conversation and play a good 
hand at whist while the ladies lingered, and was a genial 
convive when they had withdrawn and the time had come to 
"blow a cloud," to use Carlyle's imagery, and fill a final 
glass. In more intellectual moments, when the theme 
called for knowledge and practiced winnowing he was ac- 
cepted unreservedly as a companion con scienza, by great 
minds in Europe and America. There are no persisting 
anecdotes of mental defeats or gaucherie on his part — ^noth- 
ing that Du Maurier could have put into a cartoon illus- 

* Hearth and Home, December 20, 1873, 



k BIOGRAPHY 

trating an act or a saying that one would rather not have 
done or said. 

At the time of his death, Thompson was a recognized 
master of prose style, the literary editor of the foremost 
journal of his day, and, as a poet, as well known as his friends 
Hayne and Timrod. But Hayne's poems and Timrod's, 
collected and put forth in book form, made a better bid for 
recognition than Thompson's in the ephemeral garb of news- 
paper and magazine. lU-luck attended his efforts to pub- 
lish his poems. His last effort to have his work put in en- 
during form was made as his life was closing, in the Spring 
of 1873. "I know, of my personal knowledge," Colonel 
McCabe avers in a letter to the writer, "that he left com- 
plete copies, exquisitely done, of his poems, looking to their 
eventual publication. I saw them, carefully done up, in 
numerous packages, four years before Thompson died, all 
endorsed in his beautiful handwriting." And Mrs. Eliza- 
beth Stoddard relates — confirmiag the statement of The 
Home Journal — that on the day of his death he sent for her 
husband, R. H. Stoddard, "whom he made his executor, 
with full liberty to act according to his judgment in regard 
to the disposition of his effects." * 

It is known that Mr. Stoddard delivered Thompson's 
library to Bangs, Merwen & Co., 656 Broadway, New York, 
who printed a catalogue of the books and autographs, and 
offered these effects for sale on July 19 and 20, 1873. The 
Thompson manuscripts were not included. These the fam- 
ily directly, and others acting for it later, sought to recover, 
but Stoddard did not remember having received any. The 
testimony of The Journal and of Mrs. Stoddard seems to 
indicate that his memory was not good. 

Whatever the precise truth of this scrap. of literary his- 
tory may be, John R. Thompson's work has never been 

* Lippincott's Magazine, November, 1888. 



BIOGRAPHY ki 

fully or fairly presented for the judgment of the world. 
Only his war poems have come under review. These sin- 
cere students of Southern literature have regarded with 
increasing respect.* 

Thompson began his literary career consciously in the 
service of Southern literature, and never wearied of dis- 
covering and acclaiming promising writers. Our last glimpse 
of him at his congenial task is aflforded by The New York 
Evening Post: 

The late literary editor of The Evening Post, when he 
left this city about the middle of February, on a tour to the 
West, took with him for review at his leisure the then re- 
cently issued volume of The Poems of Henry Timrod, edited, 
with a sketch of the poet's life, by Paul H. Hayne (E. J. 
Hale & Son). The task of reviewing that volume he wished 
to reserve to himself. He wished to give utterance in his 
own language to his own high estimate of his departed 
poet-brother. This generous wish lived in his heart to the 
last; but his feeble hand could not put into literary form 
the tribute his heart had called for and his brain had al- 
ready fashioned. His last literary work was to begin the 
review. It was left unfinished. Only the following few 
lines were written: 

Poems of Henry Timrod. — One of the truest and tenderest 
poets of America was Henry Timrod of South Carolina. 
Yet he was so little known in the brief season of his song- 

* Among the group of Virginia poets who wrote of the early battles 
on Virginia soil John R. Thompson and Mrs. Preston stand out as 
the most conspicuous. Of distinctly higher quality than the crude 
rhymes already referred to were Thompson's humorous poems on 
some of the earlier Southern victories. His On to Richmond, modelled 
on Southey's March to Moscow, is an exceedingly clever poem. His 
mastery of double and triple rhymes, his unfailing sense of the 
value of words, and his happy use of the refrain ("the pleasant ex- 
cursion to Richmond"), make this poem one of the marked achieve- 
ments of the period. Scarcely less successful in their brilliant satire 
are his Farewell to Pope, England's Neutrality, and The Devil's De- 
light. — Cambridge History of American Literature, U, 305 (1918). 



kii BIOGRAPHY 

burst, and his exquisite poems have heretofore been eon- 
fined to so narrow a range of sympathy and admiration, 
that we doubt not that many a reader of this notice of his 
works will see his name for the first time, and think it a 
literary pseudonym. 

The rest of the page is blank. Silence holds the con- 
clusion. Here the pen fell from the failing hand. The 
heart had more to say, but the hand could not. What 
beauty in that devotion to a friend ! What pathos in the 
silence that fell upon the poet while his hand was lifted to 
place a sprig of laurel upon the grave of his brother ! 

John S. Patton. 



POEMS OF 
JOHN R. THOMPSON 



LEE TO THE REAR 

AN INCIDENT IN THE BATTLE OF THE WILDERNESS 

Dawn of a pleasant morning in May 
Broke through the wilderness cool and grey. 
While, perched in the tallest tree-tops, the birds 
Were carolling Mendelssohn's "Songs Without Words." 

Far 'from the haunts of men remote. 
The brook brawled on with a liquid note. 
And Nature, all tranquil and lovely, wore 
The smUe of the spring, as in Eden of yore. 

Little by little as daylight increased, 

And deepened the roseate flush in the east — 

Little by little did morning reveal 

Two long, glittering lines of steel; 

Where two hundred thousand bayonets gleam. 
Tipped with the light of the earliest beam, 
And the faces are sullen and grim to see, 
In. the hostile armies of Grant and Lee. 

All of a sudden, ere rose the sun, 
Pealed on the silence the opening gim — 
A little white puff of smoke there came. 
And anon the valley was wreathed in flame. 

Down on the left of the rebel lines. 
Where a breastwork stands in a copse of pines. 
Before the rebels their ranks can form, 
The Yankees have carried the place by storm. 
1 



2 LEE TO THE REAR 

Stars and Stripes on the salient wave, 

Where many a hero has found a grave, 

And the gallant Confederates strive in vain 

The ground they have drenched with their blood to regain ! 

Yet louder the thunder of battle roared — 
Yet a deadlier fire on the columns poured — ■ 
Slaughter infernal rode with despair. 
Furies twain, through the murky air. 

Not far off in the saddle there sat 
A grey-bearded man in a black slouched hat; 
Not much moved by the fire was he. 
Calm and resolute Robert Lee. 

Quick and watchful he kept his eye 
On the bold rebel brigades close by, — 
Reserves, that were standing (and dying) at ease, 
WhUe the tempest of wrath toppled over the trees. 

For still with their loud, deep, bull-dog bay, 
The Yankee batteries blazed away, 
And with every murderous second that sped 
A dozen brave fellows, alas ! fell dead. 

The grand old grey-beard rode to the space 
Where death and his victims stood face to face, 
And silently waved his old slouched hat — 
A world of meaning there was in that ! 

"Follow me! Steady! We'll save the day!" 
This was what he seemed to say; 
And to the light of his glorious eye 
The bold brigades thus made reply — 



/^ LEE TO THE REAR 3 

\ 
"We'll go forward, but you must go back" — 

Aaid the^ moved not an inch in the perilous track: 

"Go to me rear, and we'll send them to h — !" 

,- And the s^und of the battle was lost in their yell. 

■ ■> 
jf ■ Turning his bridle, Robert Lee 

y Rode to the rear. Like the waves of the sea, 

.i: ' . ... 

'^ Bursting the dikes in their overflow, 
/ . 

'jr ^ Madly his veterans dashed on the foe. 

And backward in terror that foe was driven. 
Their banners rent and tbelr columns riven. 
Wherever the tide of battle rolled 
■. Over the Wilderness, wood and wold. 

Sunset out of a crimson sky 

Streamed o'er a field of ruddier dye. 

And the brook ran on with a purple stain. 

From the blood of ten thousand foemen slain. 

♦ ! 

Seasons have passed since that day and year — 
Again o'er its pebbles the brook runs clear. 
And the field in a richer green is drest 
Whiere the dead of a terrible conflict rest. 

Hushed is the roll of the rebel drum. 

The sabres are sheathed, and the cannon are dumb. 

And Fate, with his pitiless hand, has furled 

The flag that once challenged the gaze of the world; 

But the fame of the Wilderness fight abides; 

And down into history grandly rides. 

Calm and immoved as in battle he sat, 

The grey-bearded man in the black slouched hat. 



THE BURIAL OF LATANE ' 

The combat raged not long, but ours the day; 

And through the hosts that compassed us around 
Our little band rode proudly on its way. 

Leaving one gallant comrade, glory-crowned, 
Unburied on the field he died to gain, 
Single of all his men amid the hostile slain. 

One moment on the battle's edge he stood, 
Hope's halo like a helmet round bis hair. 

The next beheld him, dabbled in his blood. 
Prostrate in death, and yet in death how fair! 

Even thus he passed through the red gate of strife. 

From earthly crowns and palms to an immortal life. 

A brother bore his body from the field 

And gave it unto stranger hands that closed 

The calm, blue eyes on earth forever sealed. 
And tenderly the slender limbs composed: 

Strangers, yet sisters, who with Mary's love, 

Sat by the open tomb and weeping looked above. 

A little child strewed roses on his bier. 

Pale roses not more stainless than his isoul, 

Nor yet more fragrant than his life sincere 

That blossomed with good actions, brief but whole; 

The aged matron and the faithful slave 

Approached with reverent feet the hero's lowly grave. 

* The superior figure here, and those occurring hereafter, refer to 
NoteB, pages 237-244. 

4 



THE BURIAL OF LATANE £ 

No man of God might say the burial rite 

Above the "rebel" — thus declared the foe 
That blanched before him in the deadly fight. 

But woman's voice, in accents soft and low, 
Trembling with pity, touched with pathos, read 
Over his hallowed dust the ritual for the dead. 

" 'Tis sown in weakness, it is raised in power," 

Softly the promise floated on the air. 
And the sweet breathings of the sunset hour 

Came back responsive to the mourner's prayer: 
Gently they laid bim underneath the sod, 
And left him with his fame, his country, and his God. 

Let us not weep for him whose deeds endm-e, 

So young, so brave, so beautiful, he died. 
As he had wished to die; the past is sure, 

Whatever yet of sorrow may betide 
Those who still linger on the stormy shore. 
Change cannot harm him now nor fortune touch him more. 

And when Virginia, leaning on her spear, 

Victrix et vidua,* the conflict done. 
Shall raise her mailed hand to wipe the tear 

That starts as she recalls each martyred son. 
No prouder memory her breast shall sway 
Than thine, our early-lost, lamented Latane. 



ASHBY 

To the brave all homage render, 

Weep, ye skies of June! 
With a radiance pure and tender. 

Shine, oh saddened moon! 
Dead upon the field of glory. 
Hero fit for song and story. 

Lies our bold dragoon. 

Well they learned, whose hands have slain him. 

Braver, knightlier foe 
Never fought with Moor nor Paynim— 

Rode at Templestowe; 
With a mien how high and joyous, 
'Gainst the hordes that would destroy us 

Went he forth, we know. 

Nevermore, alas ! shall sabre 

Gleam around his crest; 
Fought his fight, fulfilled his labour; 

Stilled his manly breast: 
All unheard sweet natm-e's cadence. 
Trump of fame and voice of maidens: 

Now he takes his rest. 

Earth, that aU too soon hath bound him. 

Gently wrap his clay. 
Linger lovingly around him. 

Light of dying day, 
6 



ASHBY 

Softly fall the summer showers, 
Birds and bees among the flowers 
Make the gloom seem gay. 

There, throughout the coming ages. 

When his sword is rust 
And his deeds in classic pages. 

Mindful of her trust. 
Shall Virginia, bending lowly. 
Still a ceaseless vigil holy 

Keep above his dust! 



GENERAL J. E. B. STUART ^ 

We could not pause, while yet the noontide air 
Shook with the cannonade's incessant pealing. 

The funeral pageant fitly to prepare, 
A nation's grief revealing. 

The smoke, above the glimmering woodland wide 
That skirts our southward border with its beauty 

Marked where our heroes stood and fought and died 
For love and faith and duty. 

And stiU, what time the doubtful strife went on. 
We might not find expression for our sorrow, 

We could but lay our dear, dumb warrior down. 
And gird us for the morrow. 

One weary year ago, when came a lull. 

With victory, in the conflict's stormy closes. 

When the glad spring, all flushed and beautiful. 
First mocked us with her roses. 

With dirge and minute-gim and bell we paid 
Some few poor rites, an inexpressive token 

Of a great people's pain, to Jackson's shade. 
In agony unspoken. 

No wailing trumpet and no tolling bell. 

No cannon, save the battle's boom receding. 

When Stuart to the grave we bore, might tell 
Of hearts all crushed and bleeding. 
8 



GENERAL J. E. B. STUART 9 

The crisis suited not with pomp, and she 

Whose anguish bears the seal of consecration. 

Had wished his Christian obsequies should be 
Thus void of ostentation. 

Only the maidens came sweet flow'rs to twine 
Above his form so still and cold and painless. 

Whose deeds upon oxu- brightest records shine. 
Whose life and sword were stainless. 

They weU remembered how he loved to dash 
Into the fight, festooned from summer bowers. 

How like a fountain's spray his sabre's flash 
Leaped from a mass of flowers. 

And so we carried to his place of rest 
All that of our great Paladin was mortal, 

The cross, and not the sabre, on his breast. 
That opes the heavenly portal. 

No more of tribute might to us remain — 

But there will come a time when Freedom's martyrs 

A richer guerdon of renown shall gain 
Than gleams in stars and garters. 

I claim no prophet's vision, but I see 

Through coming years, now near at hand, now distant. 
My rescued country, glorious and free. 

And strong and self-existent. 

I hear from out that simlit land which lies 

Beyond these clouds that gather darkly o'er us 

The happy sounds of industry arise 
In swelling, peaceful chorus. 



10 GENERAL J. E. B. STUART 

And mingling with these sounds, the glad acclaim 
Of millions, undistm-bed by war's afflictions, 

Crowning each martyr's never-dying name 
With grateful benedictions. 

In some fair future garden of delights. 

Where flowers shall bloom and song-birds sweetly warble, 
Art shall erect the statues of our knights 

In living bronze and marble. 

And none of all that bright, heroic throng 

Shall wear to far-off time a semblance grander. 

Shall still be decked with fresher wreaths of song, 
Than the beloved commander. 

The Spanish legend tells us of the Cid 

That after death he rode erect, sedately 
Along his lines, even as in life he did. 

In presence yet more stately; 

And thus our Stuart at this moment seems 
To ride out of our dark and troubled story 

Into the region of romance and dreams, 
A realm of light and glory. 

And sometimes, when the silver bugles blow. 

That radiant form, in battle re-appearing. 
Shall lead his horsemen headlong on the foe. 

In victory careering ! 



THE BATTLE RAINBOW 

On the evening before the battles before Richmond, a magnificent 
rainbow, following a thunder-storm, overspread the eastern sky, 
exactly defining the position of the Confederate Army, as seen from 
the Capitol. 

The warm, weary day was departing, the smile 
Of the sunset gave token the tempest had ceased, 

And the lightning yet fitfully gleamed for awhile 
On the cloud that sank sullen and dark in the east. 

There our army, awaiting the terrible fight 

Of the morrow, lay hopefvd and watchful and still; 

Where their tents all the region had sprinkled with white 
From river to river, o'er meadow and hill. 

While above them the fierce cannonade of the sky 

Blazed and burst from the vapours that muffled the sun, 

Their "counterfeit clamours" gave forth no reply. 
And slept till the battle, the charge in each gim. 

When lo ! on the cloud a miraculous thing ! 

Broke in beauty the rainbow oiu- hosts to enfold; 
The centre o'erspread by its arch and each wing 

Suffused with its azure and crimson and gold. 

Blest omen of victory, symbol divine 

Of peace after tumult, repose after pam. 
How sweet and how glowing with promise the sign 

To eyes that should never behold it again ! 
11 



12 THE BATTLE RAINBOW 

For the fierce flame of war on the morrow flashed out. 
And its thunder peals filled all the tremulous air; 

Over slippery entrenchment and reddened redoubt 
Rang the wild cheer of triumph, the cry of despair. 

Then a long week of glory and agony came. 
Of mute supplication and yearniug and dread; 

When day imto day gave the record of fame, 
And night unto night gave the list of its dead. 

We had triumphed ! — the foe had fled back to his ships. 
His standards in rags and his legions a wreck, 

But alas ! the stark faces, and colourless lips 

Of our loved ones gave triumph's rejoicing a check. 

Not yet, oh, not yet, as a sign of release, 

Had the Lord set in mercy his bow in the cloud. 

Not yet had the Comforter whispered of peace 

To the hearts that around us lay bleeding and bowed. 

But the promise was given . . . the beautiful arc. 
With its brilliant confusion of coloj-s, that spanned 

The sky on that exquisite eve, was the mark 
Of the Infinite Love overarching the land ... 

And that Love, shining richly and full as the day, 

Through the tear-drops that moisten each martyr's proud 
pall. 

On the gloom of the past the bright bow shall display 
Of Freedom, Peace, Victory, bent over all. 



MUSIC IN CAMP 

Two armies covered hill and plain, 
Where Rappahannock's waters 

Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain 
Of battle's recent slaughters. 

The summer clouds lay pitched like tents 

In meads of heavenly azure; 
And each dread gun of the elements 

Slept in its hid embrasure. 

The breeze so softly blew it made 

No forest leaf to quiver, 
And the smoke of the random cannonade 

Rolled slowly from the river. 

And now where circliug hUls looked down 

With cannon grimly planted, 
O'er listless camp and silent town, 

The golden sunset slanted. 

When on the fervid air there came 
A strain, now rich, now tender. 

The music seemed itself aflame. 
With day's departing splendor. 

A Federal band, which eve and morn 
Played measures brave and nimble, 

.Had just struck up with flute and horn 
And lively clash of cymbal. 
IS 



14 MUSIC IN CAMP 

Down flocked the soldiers to the banks 
Till, margined by its pebbles, 

One wooded shore was blue with "Yanks," 
And one was gray with "Rebels." 

Then all was still, and then the band 
With movements light and tricksy. 

Made stream and forest, hUl and strand. 
Reverberate with "Dixie." 

The conscious stream, with burnished glow, 
Went proudly o'er its pebbles. 

But thrilled throughout its deepest flow 
With yelling of the Rebels. 

Again a pause, and then again 
The trumpet pealed sonorous. 

And "Yankee Doodle" was the strain 
To which the shore gave chorus. 

The laughing ripple shoreward flew 
To kiss the shining pebbles, 

Loud shrieked the crowding Boys in Blue 
Defiance to the Rebels. 

And yet once more the bugle sang 

Above the stormy riot; 
No shout upon the evening rang. 

There reigned a holy quiet. 

The sad slow stream its noiseless flood 
Poured o'er the glistening pebbles; 

All silent now the Yankee stood. 
And silent stood the Rebels. 



MUSIC IN CAMP 15 

No unresponsive soul had heard 

That plaintive note's appealing. 
So deeply "Home, Sweet Home," had stirred 

The hidden founts of feeling. 

Or Blue or Gray the soldier sees. 

As by the wand of fairy, 
The cottage 'neath the live-oak trees. 

The cabin by the prairie. 

Or cold or warm his native skies 

Bend in their beauty o'er him; 
Seen through the tear-mist ia his eyes. 

His loved ones stand before him. 

As fades the iris after raiu 

In April's tearful weather. 
The vision vanished as the straia 

And daylight died together. 

But Memory, waked by Music's art, 

Exprest in simplest numbers. 
Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart. 

Made light the Rebel's slumbers. 

And fair the form of Music shines. 

That bright, celestial creature. 
Who stUl 'mid War's embattled lines 

Gave this one touch of Nature. 



ON TO RICHMOND 

[after southet's "march to Moscow"] 

Majob-General Scott 

An order had got 
To push on the column to Richmond; 

For loudly went forth 

From all parts of the North 
The cry that an end of the war must be made 
In time for the regular yearly Fall Trade: 
Mr. Greeley spoke freely about the delay. 
The Yanks "to hum" were all hot for the fray; 

The chivalrous Grow 

Declared they were slow— 

And therefore the order 

To march from the border 
And to make an excursion to Richmond. 

Major-General Scott 

Most likely was not 
Very loth to obey this instruction, I wot; 
/ In his private opinion 

The Ancient Dominion 
Deserved to be pillaged, her sons to be shot, 
And the reason is easily noted; 

Though this part of the earth 

Had given him birth 

And medals and swords 

Inscribed in fine words, 
It never for Winfield had voted. 
Besides, you must know, that our First of Commanders 
Had sworn quite as hard as the Army in Flanders, 
16 



ON TO RICHMOND 17 

With his finest of armies and proudest of navies, 
To wrack his old grudge against Jefferson Davis. 
Then, "Forward the column," he said to McDowell; 

And the Zouaves, with a shout, 

Most fiercely cried out, 
"To Richmond or h — 11!" (I omit here the vowel). 
And Winfield he ordered his carriage and four, 
A dashing turn-out, to be brought to the door. 
For a pleasant exciu'sion to Richmond. 

Major-General Scott 

Had there on the spot 

A splendid array 

To plunder and slay; 

In the camp he might boast 

Such a numerous host 

As he never had yet 

In the battle-field set; 
Every class and condition of Northern society 
Were in for the trip, a most varied variety: 
In the camp he might hear every lingo in vogue, 
"The sweet German accent, the rich Irish brogue." 

The buthiful boy 

From the banks of the Shannon 

Was there to employ 

His excellent cannon; 
And besides the long files of dragoons and artillery. 

The Zouaves and Hussars, 

AH the children of Mars — 

There were barbers and cooks. 

And writers of books — 
The chef de cuisine with his French bUl of fare. 
And the artists to dress the yoimg oflScers' hair. 
And the scribblers were ready at once to prepare 



18 ON TO RICHMOND 

An eloquent story 

Of conquest and glory; 
And servants with numberless baskets of Sillery, 
Though Wilson the Senator followed the train, 
At a distance quite safe, to "conduct the champagne;" 
While the fields were so green and the sky was so blue 
There was certainly nothing more pleasant to do. 
On this pleasant excursion to Richmond. 

In Congress the talk, as I said, was of action. 
To crush out instanter the traitorous faction. 

In the press, and the mess. 

They would hear nothing less 
Than to make the advance, spite of rhyme or of reason. 
And at once put an end to the insolent treason. 

There was Greeley 

And Ely, 

And bloodthirtsy Grow, 
And Hickman (the rowdy, not Hickman the beau). 
And that terrible Baker 
Who would seize on the South every acre. 
And Webb, who would drive us all into the Gulf, or 
Some nameless locality smelling of sulphur; 

And with all this bold crew 

Nothing would do. 
While the fields were so green, and the sky was so blue. 
But to march on directly to Richmond. 

Then the gallant McDowell 

Drove madly the rowel 
Of spur that had never been "won" by him 

In the flank of his steed 

To accomplish a deed 
Such as never before had been done by him; 



ON TO RICHMOND 19 

And the battery called Sherman's 

Was wheeled into line, 
While the beer-drinking Germans 

From Neckar and Rhine, 
With minie and yager 
Came on with a swagger. 
Full of fury and lager, 
(The day and the pageant were equally fine). 
Oh, the fields were so green, and the sky was so blue, 
Indeed 'twas a spectacle pleasant to view. 
As the column pushed onward to Richmond. 

Ere the march was begun. 

In a spirit of fun. 

General Scott in a speech 

Said the army would teach 
The Southrons the lesson the laws to obey. 
And just before dusk of the third or fourth day. 
Should joyfully march into Richmond. 

He spoke of their drill 

And their courage and skill. 
And declared that the ladies of Richmond would rave 
O'er such matchless perfection, and gracefully wave 
In rapture their delicate kerchiefs in air 
At their morning parades on the Capitol Square. 

But alack ! and alas ! 

Mark what soon came to pass. 
When this army, in spite of his flatteries. 

Amid war's loudest thunder. 

Must stupidly blunder 
Upon those accursed "masked batteries." 



20 ON TO RICHMOND 

Then Beauregard came 

Like a tempest of flame 

To consimie them in wrath 

In their perilous path; 
And Johnston bore down in a whirlwind, to sweep 

Their ranks from the field 

Where their doom had been sealed. 
And the storm rushes over the face of the deep; 
While swift on the centre our President pressed. 

And the foe might descry 

In the glance of his eye 
The light that once blazed upon Diomed's crest. 

McDowell ! McDowell ! weep, weep for the day 
When the Southrons you met in their battle array; 
To your confident hosts with its bullets and steel 
'Twas worse than CuUoden to luckless Lochiel. 
Oh, the generals were green, and old Scott is now blue, 
And a terrible business, McDowell, to you 
Was that pleasant excursion to Richmond. 



OLD ABE'S MESSAGE, JULY 4, 1861 

Once more. Representatives, Senators, — all — 

You come to my capital swift at my call, 

'Tis well, for you've something important to do, 

In this most disagreeable national stew; 

For since I came hither to run the machine. 

Disguised in a Scotch cap and full Lincoln green. 

There's the devil to pay in the whole blame concern, 

As from Cameron and Seward and Chase you will learn. 

And while everything here of a bust-up gives warning 

I'm certain you'll put it all right in the morning; 

So to do as I tell you be on the alert. 

For the panic's fictitious and nobody's hurt. 

I've started no war of invasion, you know. 

Let who will pretend to deny it — ^that's so; 

But I saw from the White House an impudent rag. 

Which they told me was known as Jeff Davis's flag, 

Waving above my Alexandria high, 

Insulting my government, flouting the sky. 

Above my Alexandria, isn't it, Bates, 

Retrocession's a humbug — ^what rights have the States? 

So I ordered young Ellsworth to take the rag down, 

Mrs. Lincoln she wanted it to make a new gown; 

But young Ellsworth he "kinder" got shot in the race. 

And came back in a galvanized-burial case. 

But, then, Jackson, the scoundrel, he got his desert. 

For the panic's fictitious and nobody's hurt. 

'Tis true, I sent steamers which tried for a week 
To silence the Rebels down here at the creek; 
21 



22 OLD ABE'S MESSAGE, JULY 4, 1861 

But tbey had at Game Point about fifty or more 

Rifled cannon set up in a line on the shore. 

And six thousand Confederates practised to fire 'em; 

Confound these Virginians, you never can tire 'em. 

For they made game of our shooting and crippled our fleet, 

So we prudently ordered a hasty retreat; 

With decks full of passengers, — dead-heads indeed, 

For whom of fresh coflfins there straightway was need; 

And still later at Mathias's they killed Captain Ward 

In command of the Freeborn — ah! 'tis mighty hard; 

But in spite of all this the rebellion's a spurt, 

For the panic's fictitious, and nobody's hurt. 

Herewith 1 beg leave to submit the report 

Of Butler, the general, concerning the sport 

They had at "Great Bethel," near Fortress Monroe, 

With Hill and Magruder some four weeks ago; 

And here, let me say, a more reckless intruder 

I never have known than this General Magruder; 

For he's taken the "Comfort" away from Old Point, 

And thrown our peninsula plans out of joint; 

While, in matters of warfare, to him General Butler 

Would scarcely be thought worthy to act as a sutler, 

And that insolent Rebel will call to our faces 

The flight at "Great Bethel" the "Newmarket Races;" 

Then supersede Butler at once with whoever 

Can drive this Magruder clean into the river; 

And I shall be confident still to assert. 

That the panic's fictitious and nobody's hurt. 

'Tis my province herein — briefly to state. 
The state of my pr'ovinces surely of late, 
Missouri and Maryland — one has the paw 
Of my Lion upon her, ^nd one has the law 



OLD ABE'S MESSAGE, JULY 4, 1861 23 

Called martial proclaimed thro' her borders and cities, 

Both are crushed, a big thing, I make bold to say it is; 

St. Louis is silent and Baltimore dumb. 

They hear but the monotone roll of my drum. 

In the latter vile seaport I ordered Cadwallader 

To manacle freedom and through the crowd follow her. 

Locked up in McHenry, she's safe it is plain. 

With Merryman, habeas corpus, and Kane; 

And as for that crabbed old dotard. Judge Taney, 

For much I would put him on board the Pawnee, 

And make his decisions a little more curt; 

For the panic's fictitious and nobody's hurt. 

And now I'll just tell you what I'll have you to do, 
In order to put your new President through; 
First, three hundred millions wanted by Chase, 
He cannot run longer the government's face. 
And Cameron wants for the use of Old Scott 
About five hundred thousand more men than he's got. 
And sixty new iron-plate ships to stand shells 
Are loudly demanded, must have 'em, by Welles; 
For England, the bully, can't stand our blockade. 
And insists that we shall not embarrass her trade; 
But who fears the British? I'll speedily tune 'em. 
As sure as my name is Epluribus Unum; 
For I am myself the whole United States, 
Constitution and laws; if you doubt it, ask Bates; 
The Star Spangled banner's my holiday shirt; 
Hurrah for Abe Lincoln, there's nobody hurt. 



ENGLAND'S NEUTRALITY 

A PARLIAMENTARY DEBATE 

All ye who with credulity the whispers hear of fancy, 
Or yet pursue with eagerness Hope's wild extravagancy, 
Who dream that England soon will drop her long miscalled 

Neutrality 
And give us, with a hearty shake, the hand of Nationality, 

Read, as we give, with little fault of statement or omis- 
sion. 

The next debate in Parliament on Southern Recognition; 

They're all so much alike, indeed, that one can write it off, 
I see. 

As truly as the Times report without the gift of prophecy. 

Not yet, not yet to interfere does England see occasion. 
But treats our good commissioner with coldness and eva- 
sion; 
Such coldness in the premises that really 'tis refrigerant 
To think that two long years ago she called us a belliger- 
ent. 

But further Downing Street is dumb, the Premier deaf to 

reason, 
As deaf as is the Morning Post, both in and out of season: 
The working men of Lancashire are all reduced to beggary. 
And yet they will not listen unto Roebuck or to Gregory, 

"Or any other man," today, who counsels interfering. 
While all who speak on t'other side obtain a ready hearing — 
As per example Mr. Bright, that pink of all propriety. 
That meek and mild disciple of the blessed Peace Society. 

24 



ENGLAND'S NEUTRALITY 25 

"Why, let 'em fight," says Mr. Bright, "those Southerners 

I hate 'em, 
I hope the Black Republicans will soon exterminate 'em; 
If Freedom can't Rebellion crush, pray tell me what's the 

use of her?" 
And so he chuckles o'er the fray as gleefully as Lucifer. 

Enough of him; an abler man demands our close attention — 
The Maximus Apollo of strict Non Intervention. 
With pitiless severity, though decorus and calm his tone. 
Thus speaks the "old man eloquent," the puissant Earl of 
Palmerston: 

"What though the land run red with blood: what though 

the Im^id flashes 
Of cannon light at dead of night a mournful heap of 

ashes 
Where many an ancient mansion stood? what though the 

robber pillages 
The sacred home, the house of God, in twice a hundred vil- 
I? 



"What though a fiendish, nameless wrong, that makes re- 
venge a duty 

Is daily done" (O Lord, how long?) "to tenderness and 
beauty?" — 

(And who shall tell this deed of hell, how deadlier far a 
curse it is 

Than even pulling temples down and burning imiversities ?) 

"Let arts decay, let millions fall, for aye let Freedom per- 
ish. 

With all that in the Western World men fain would love 
and cherish; 



26 ENGLAND'S NEUTRALITY 

Let Universal Ruin there become a sad reality: 
We cannot swerve, we must preserve our rigorous Neutral- 
ity." 

Oh, Pam ! Oh, Pam ! hast ever read what's writ in holy 
pages, 

How blessed the Peacemakers are, God's children of the 
Ages ? 

Perhaps you think the promise sweet was nothing but a 
platitude; 

'Tis clear that you have no concern in that divine beati- 
tude. 

But "hear! hear! hear!" another peer, that mighty man 
of muscle. 

Is on his legs, what slender pegs! ye noble Earl of Rus- 
sell; 

Thus might he speak did not of speech his shrewd reserve 
the folly see. 

And thus xmfold the subtle plan of England's secret policy: 

"John Bright was right! Yes, let 'em fight, these fools 
across the water, 

'Tis no aflfair at all of ours, their carnival of slaughter ! 

The Christian world indeed may say we ought not to al- 
low it, sirs. 

But stiU 'tis music in our ears, this roar of Yankee how- 
itzers. 

"A word or two of sympathy that costs us not a penny 
We give the gallant Southerners, the few against the many; 
We say their noble fortitude of final triumph presages, 
And praise in Blackwood's Magazine, Jefif Davis and his 
messages — 



ENGLAND'S NEUTRALITY 27 

"Of course we claim the shining fame of glorious Stonewall 
Jackson, 

Who typifies the English race, a sterling Anglo-Saxon; 

To bravest song his deeds belong, to Clio and Melpo- 
mene" . . . 

(And why not for a British stream demand the Chicka- 
hominy ?) 

"But for the cause in which he fell we cannot lift a finger. 
'Tis idle on the question any longer here to linger; 
'Tis true the South has freely bled, her sorrows are Ho- 
meric, oh! 
Her case is like to his of old who journeyed imto Jericho — 

"The thieves have stripped and bruised, although as yet 
they have not bound her; 

We'd like to see her slay 'em all to right and left around her; 

We shouldn't cry in Parliament if Lee should cross the 
Raritan, 

But England never yet was known to play the Good Sa- 
maritan. 

"And so we pass to t'other side and leave them to their 
glory 

To give new proofs of manliness, new scenes for song and 
story; 

These honeyed words of compliment may possibly bam- 
boozle 'em, 

But ere we intervene, you know, we'll see 'em in— Jerusalem. 

"Yes, let 'em fight, till both are brought to hopeless deso- 
lation. 

Till wolves troop round the cottage door, in one and t'other 
nation. 



28 ENGLAND'S NEUTRALITY 

Till, worn and broken down, the South shall prove no more 

refractory, 
And rust eats up the silent looms of every Yankee factory — 

"Till bursts no more the cotton boll o'er fields of Carolina, 
And fills with snowy flosses the dusky hands of Dinah; 
Till war has dealt its final blow, and Mr. Seward's knav- 
ery 
Has put an end in all the land to freedom and to slavery. 

"The grim bastile, the rack, the wheel, without remorse or 

pity, 

May flourish with the guillotine in every Yankee city, 
No matter should old Abe revive the brazen bull of Phal- 

aris, 
'Tis no concern at all of ours" — (sensation in the galleries). 

"So shall our 'merrie England' thrive on trans- Atlantic 
troubles, 

While India on her distant plains her crop of cotton dou- 
bles; 

And just so long as North or South shall show the least 
vitality 

We cannot swerve, we must preserve our rigorous Neu- 
trality.*' 

Your speech, my lord, might well become a Saxon legis- 
lator, 

When the "fine old English gentleman" lived in a state of 
natur'. 

When vikings quaffed from human skulls their fiery draughts 
of honey mead. 

Long, long before the barons bold met tyrant John at Run- 
nymede — 



ENGLAND'S NEUTRALITY 29 

But 'tis a speech so plain, my lord, that all may under- 
stand it. 
And so we quickly turn again to fight the Yankee bandit. 
Convinced that we shall fairly win at last our Nationality 
Without the help of Britain's arm — in spite of her Neu- 
trality. 



THE DEVIL'S DELIGHT 

To breakfast one morning the Devil came down, 

By demons and vassals attended; 
A headache had darkened his brow with a frown, 
From his orgie last night, or the weight of his crown, 

But his presence infernal was splendid. 

In a robe of red flame was Diavolo dressed. 

Without smutch of a cinder to soil it; 
Blue blazes enveloped his throat and his chest. 
While the tail, tied with ribbons as blue as the vest. 
Completed his Majesty's toUet. 

No masquerade devU of earth could begin. 

With his coimterfeit horns and his mock tail. 
To look like this model Original Sin, 
As of lava and lightning and bitters and gin 
He sat and compoimded a cocktail. 

But to give, in all conscience, the Devil his due, 

He seemed sorrowful rather than irate; 
And his Majesty moped all the dejeimer through. 
With a twitch, now and then, of the ribbons of blue. 
And the look of a penitent pirate; 

Then a smUe, such as follows some capital joke 

Of a Dickens, a Hood, or a Jerrold, 
Sweet, playful, and tender, aU suddenly broke 
O'er the face of Sathanas, as turning he spoke, 

"Go, imp! bring the file of the Herald!" 



THE DEVIL'S DELIGHT 31 

The paper was brought, and Old Nick ran his eye 

(In default of debates in the Senate) 
Over crimes, there were plenty, of terrible dye. 
Over letter and telegram, slander and lie. 

And the blatherskite leaders of Bennett. 

There were frauds in high places, official deceit; 

There were sms, we'll not name them, of ladies; 
There were Mexican murders and murders in Crete, 
By the thousand, all manner of villainies sweet 

To the Herald's subscribers in Hades. 

But the numberless horrors of every degree 

Did not wholly dispel his dejection; 
"The Herald's a bore, I'm aweary," says he; 
Then uprising, he added, "What's this.? 'Tennessee!' 

By jingo ! here's Brownlow's election ! 

"Ho, varlet! fill up till the beaker runs o'er!" 
Cried the DeO, growing joyous and frisky; 

A white-hot ferruginous goblet he bore. 

And the liquor was vitriol "straight," which he swore 
Was less hurtful than tanglefoot whiskey. 

"Fill up ! let us drink," said the Father of Lies, 

"To the mortal whose claims are most weighty!" 
And a light diabolic shone out of his eyes 
That made the thermometer instantly rise 
To fully five thousand and eighty. 

"I have knights of the garter and knights of the lance 
Who shall surely hereafter for sin burn; 

I have writers of history, ethics, romance. 

In England, America, Germany, France, 
And a gay little poet in Swinburne; 



32 THE DEVIL'S DELIGHT 

"Reformers who go in for infinite smash, 

The widows' and orphans' oppressor; 
D. Ds. by the dozen, whose titles are trash. 
To be written with two httle d's and a dash; 

And many a Father Confessor: 

"And besides all the hypocrites," chuckled the Deil, 

"Who serve me with Ave and Credo, 
I have tyrants that murder, commanders that steal, 
Dahomey, Mouravieff, Butler, McNeil, 

Thad Stevens, Joe Holt, Escobedo: 

"But the man of all others the most to my mind. 

The dearest terrestrial creature. 
Is the blaspheming priest and the tyrant combined. 
Who mocks at his Maker and curses his kind. 

In the garb of a Methodist preacher. 

"And so long as of Darkness I'm absolute Prince, 

From his praise there shall be no deduction. 
Whose acts a most exquisite malice eviuce. 
And whose government furnishes excellent hints. 
Opportunely for Hell's Reconstruction." 

Then the Fiend, with a laughter no language may tell. 

Drained his cup, and abasing his crown low, 

Cried "Hip, hip, hm-rah!" and a boisterous yell 

Went round till the nethermost confines of Hell 

Reechoed "Three cheers for old Brownlow!" 



A WORD WITH THE WEST 

[on the departure of general JOSEPH E. JOHNSTON FOR 
HIS WESTERN COMMAND] 

Once more to the breach for the Land of the West ! 
And a leader we give of our bravest and best. 

Of his State and his army the pride: 
Hope shines like the plume of Navarre on his crest. 

And gleams in the glaive at his side. 

For his courage is keen and his honor is bright 
As the trusty Toledo he wears to the fight, 

Newly wrought in the forges of Spain, 
And this weapon^ like aU he has brandished for Right 

Will never be dimmed by a stain. 

He leaves the loved soil of Virginia behind, 
Where the dust of his fathers is fitly enshrined, 

Where lie the fresh fields of his fame; 
Where the murmurous pines as they sway in the wind 

Seem ever to whisper his name. 

The Johnstons have always borne wings on their spurs. 
And their motto a noble distinction confers: 

"Ever Ready" for friend or for foe — 
With a patriot's fervor the sentiment stirs 

The large, manly heart, of our Joe. 

1 General Johnston carries with him a beautiful sword recently pre- 
sented to him, bearing the mark of the Royal Manufactory of Tole- 
do, 1862.— J. R. T. 

33 



I A WORD WITH THE WEST 

We recall that a former bold chief of the clan 
Fell, bravely defending the West, in the van. 

On Shiloh's illustrious day; 
And with reason we reckon our Johnston the man 

The dark bloody debt to repay. 

There is much to be done; if not glory to seek, 
There's a just and a terrible vengeance to wreak 

For crimes of a terrible dye. 
While the plaint of the helpless, the wail of the weak. 

In a chorus rise up to tjie sky. 

For the Wolf of the North we once drove to his den, 
That quailed in affright 'neath the stern glance of men. 

With his pack has turned to the spoil; 
Then come from the hamlet, the moimtain and glen. 

And drive him again from the soil. 

Brave-born Tennesseans so loyal, so true, 

Who have hrmted the beast in your highlands, of you 

Our leader had never a doubt; 
You will troop by the thousand the chase to renew 

The day that his bugles ring out. 

But ye "Hunters" so famed "of Kentucky" of yore. 
Where, where are the rifles that kept from your door 

The wolf and the robber as well? 
Of a truth you have never been laggard before 

To deal with a savage so fell. 

Has the love you once bore to your country grown cold ? 
Has the fire on the altar died out? Do you hold 

Your lives than your freedom more dear? 
Can you shamefully barter your birthright for gold, 

Or basely take coimsel of fear? 



A WORD WITH THE WEST 35 

We will not believe it — ^Kentucky, the land 
Of a Clay will not tamely submit to the brand 

That disgraces the dastard, the slave; 
The hour of redemption draws nigh — is at hand — 

Her own sons her own honor shall save ! 

Mighty men of Missouri, come forth to the call. 
With the rush of yotu- rivers when the tempests appal 

And the torrents their sources imseal. 
And this be the watchword of one and of all — 

"Remember the butcher, McNeil!" 

Then once more to the breach for the Land of the West ! 
Strike home for yovir hearths — for the lips you love best — 

Follow on where your leader you see; 
One flash of his sword, when the foe is hard prest. 

And the Land of the West shall be Free ! 



COERCION: 

A POEM FOB THE TIMES 

Who talks of coercion? Who dares to deny 

A resolute people the right to be free? 
Let him blot out forever one star from the sky 

Or curb with his fetter one wave of the sea. 

Who prates of coercion? Can love be restored 
To bosoms where only resentment may dwell — 

Can peace upon earth be proclaimed by the sword. 
Or good will among men be established by shell? 

Shame ! shame that the statesman and trickster forsooth 
Should have for a crisis no other recoiu'se, 

Beneath the fair day-spring of Light and of Truth, 
Than the old hrutem fulmen of Tyranny — Force. 

From the holes where Fraud, Falsehood and Hate slink 
away: 

From the crypt in which Error lies buried in chains — 
This foul apparition stalks forth to the day. 

And would ravage the land which his presence profanes. 

Could you conquer us. Men of the North, could you bring 
Desolation and death on our homes as a flood — 

Can you hope the pure lily. Affection, will spring 
From ashes all reeking and sodden with blood? 

Could you brand us as viUains, and serfs, know ye not 
What fierce, sullen hatred lurks under the scar? 

How loyal to Hapsburg is Venice, I wot. 

How dearly the Pole loves his Father, the Czar ! 



COERCION 37 

But 'twere well to remember this land of the sun 

Is a nutrix leonum and suckles a race 
Strong-armed, lion-hearted and banded as one 

Who brook not oppression and know not disgrace. 

And well may the schemers in office beware 
The swift retribution that waits upon crime, 

When the lion, Resistance, shall leap from his lair 
With a fury that renders his vengeance sublime. 

Once, Men of the North, we were brothers, and still. 
Though brothers no more, we would gladly be friends; 

Nor join in a conflict accurst that must fill 
With ruin the country on which it descends. 

But if smitten with blindness and mad with the rage 
The gods gave to all whom they wished to destroy, 

You would not act a new Iliad to darken the age 
With horrors beyond what is told us of Troy — 

If, deaf as the adder itself to the cries. 

When Wisdom, Humanity, Justice implore. 

You would have our proud eagle to feed on the eyes 
Of those who have taught him so grandly to soar — 

If there be to yovu* malice no limit imposed, 
And you purpose hereafter to rule with the rod 

The men upon whom you have already closed 
Our goodly domain and the temples of God — 

To the breeze then yotu- banner dishonoured unfold. 
And at once let the tocsin be sounded afar; 

We greet you, as greeted the Swiss Charles the Bold, 
With a farewell to peace and a welcome to war ! 



S8 COERCION 

For the courage that clmgs to our soil, ever bright, 
Shall catch inspirations from turf and from tide; 

Our sons unappalled shall go forth to the fight 

With the smUe of the fair, the pure kiss of the bride; 

And the bugles its echoes shall send through the past. 
In the trenches of Yorktown to waken the slain; 

While the sods of King's Mountain shall heave at the blast. 
And give up its heroes to glory again. 



UNITED STATES DISTRICT COURT, DISTRICT 
NO. 1, UNDERWOOD, J.* 

Virginia ! how sad is thy case. 

How degraded thy judgments impartial. 
When Underwood sits in the place 

That once was adorned by a Marshall, 
We say it with reason that Fate 

Was cruel, if not undiscerning. 
To give Knavery, Pedantry, Hate, 

For Goodness and Wisdom and Learning. 

They tell us that Justice is blind. 

And thus we may safely determine 
How Underwood e'er was assigned 

To wear her immaculate ermine; 
His peer you'll not find in your track 

Though you travel from Maine to Missouri 
Whose vUlainous heart is as black 

As the faces of five of his jury. 

Foul spectre of Jeffreys, avaunt ! 

Apparition of Impey, be quiet ! 
When Underwood comes with his cant 

To investigate murder and riot; 
Yet if you will not be denied. 

But insist you are birds of a feather. 
Take your places at once by his side 

And all three sit in banco together. 
39 



WILLIAM H. SEWARD 

[on his RETUEN from EUROPE, JANUARY, I860] 

Sic te diva potens Cypri, 
Sic fratres Helenae, lucida sidera, 

Ventorumque regat pater, 
Obstrictis aliis praeter lapyga, 

Navis quae tibi creditum 
Debes Virgilium, finibus Atticis 

Eeddas incolumen, precor, 
Et serves animae dimidium meae. 

— ^HoEATius, Liber 1, carmen 3 

Blest be the ship that brought you safe to shore. 
Long fated with the winds and waves to wrestle. 

As that of old which Virgil proudly bore; 

(My motto's not, you must yourself confess, ill). 

You never have been so much missed before, 
They want you now upon another vessel — 

The ship of state is drifting fast to leeward, 

And needs yoiu* master hand, O matchless Seward ! 

I cannot tell, indeed, but we shall go 
To Davy Jones with such a Palinurus, 

There's been of late a "dreffle" heavy blow 
From bustling Auster and destructive Eurus; 

And able seamanship alone, I know 

'Gainst ever-threatening peril can secure us — 

And sure am I we should have soon been undone 

Had you not happily come back from London. 

But I forget — you came direct from France, 

You've been a guest at Compiegne of the Emperor- 

Methinks I see you lightest in the dance. 
Like youthful innocence (0 si sic semperl) or 
40 



WILLIAM H. SEWARD 41 

Ogling with the looks of tenderness askance 

The fair Eugenie in the sweetest temper, or 
Apart with Louis, with a cool effront'ry 
Plotting the speedy downfall of the country. 

You've made a pilgrimage, another "ChUde," 
To Greece where stood the ancient Athenaeum 

And roamed through "antres vast and desarts" wild 
And heard in minsters dim the loved Te Deum; 

In galleries strolled where Raphael's Mary smiled. 
And seen the ruins of the Coliseum; — 

And now retm-n to an admiring nation 

To see the ruins of your reputation. 

Enough— you're wanted in this country now, 
For since you lingered by the fane of Isis, 

They've gone and made Oh, such a precious row 
In Congress over the "Impending Crisis": 

By Huiton Helper, not by Dr. Howe, 

Of which but fifty cents the present price is — 

They print it cheap to make it more accessible. 

The text-book of your "Conflict Irrepressible." 

They've hung John Brown, the martyr and the saint. 
To whom New England sings extravaganzas — 

The Devil himself would Wendell Phillips paint 
Sky-blue, and Lowell write him tuneful stanzas; 

But, spite of Black Republican complaint. 

You'll hear no more, I think, of "bleediag Kansas" — 

Virginia stopped that terrible phlebotomy 

Last month, you know, in hanging Ossawattomie. 

"O bloodiest picture in the Book of Time!" 

Perhaps you'll say. 'Twas a stern sentence, very; 



42 WILLIAM H. SEWARD 

But old Brown's rifle slew (confound the rhyme!) 
Some worthy citizens at Harper's Ferry; 

Think of the tool and victim of your crime, 
And o'er his righteous fate at home make merry, 

Or quickly seek North Elba where they've laid him 

And there confess how vilely you've betrayed him. 

We've heard about yoiu" knowledge of his scheme, 
And how you said they never should have told you 

But kept the guilty secret; did you deem 

The Black Republicans had only "sold" you? 

Oh, no; you know 'twas not a hideous dream. 

No doubts, no conscience twinges e'er controlled you; 

For this, and other pleasing stories, 

Vide the brilliant speech of Mr. Voorhees. 

"Sweet Auburn! Loveliest village of the plain," 
Well may thy sons ia happy groups assemble. 

To welcome to his long-lost home again 

The man whose voice makes list'ning senates tremble. 

As fashionable people thrill with pain 

At Lady Macbeth read by Fanny Kemble — 

And who atones at once for all his knavery 

By eloquently pitching into slavery. 

There is a prison* in that pleasant town 
That should have offered you its hospitalities. 

On landscapes peaceful its grim walls look down. 
Quite near the Central Railway and Canal it is — 

There you might write the life of Captain Brown, 
The quietest of undisturbed localities. 

And there I trust you may yet be resident 

Until the "colored gem'men" make you President. 

* Western Penitentiary of New York. 



A FAREWELL TO POPE 

"Hats oflF" in the crowd, "Present arms" in the line! 
Let the standards all bow, and the sabres incline — 
Roll, drums, the Rogue's March, while the conqueror goes. 
Whose eyes have seen only "the backs of his foes" — 
Through a thicket of laurel, a whirlwind of cheers, 
His vanishing form from our gaze disappears; 
Henceforth with the savage Dacotahs to cope, 
Abiit, evasit, erwpit — ^John Pope. 

He came out of the West, like the young Lochinvar, 

Compeller of fate and controller of war, 

Videre et vincere, simply to see. 

And straightway to conquer HiU, Jackson and Lee; 

And old Abe at the White House, like Kilmansegg pere, 

"Seemed washing his hands with invisible soap," 

As with eager attention he listened to Pope. 

He came — and the poultry was swept by his sword. 
Spoons, liquors, and furniture went by the board; 
And "rode to the front," which was strangely the rear; 
He conquered — truth, decency, pretender, poltroon; 
And was fain from the scene of his triumphs to slope, 
Sure there never was fortimate hero like Pope. 

He has left us his shining example to note. 
And Stuart has captured his uniform coat; 
But 'tis puzzling enough, as his deeds we recall. 
To tell on whose shoulders his mantle should fall; 

43 



A FAREWELL TO POPE 

While many may claim to deserve it, at least. 
From Hunter, the Homid, down to Butler, the Beast, 
None else, we can say, without risking the trope. 
But himself can be parallel ever to Pope. ^ 

Like his namesake the poet of genius and fire, 
He gives new expression and force to the lyre; 
But in one little matter they differ, the two. 
And differ, indeed, very widely, 'tis true- 
While his verses gave great Alexander his fame, 
'Tis our hero's reverses accomplish the same. 
And fate may decree that the end of a rope 
Shall award yet his highest position to Pope. 



RICHMOND'S A HARD ROAD TO TRAVEL; 

. Ok the New Jokdan, as Sung with Enthusiastic 
Applause in All the Northern Theatres 

[respectfully dedicated to general AMBROSE E. 

burnside] 

Would you lite to hear the song, I'm afraid it's rather long, 

Of the famous "On to Richmond" double trouble — 
Of the half a dozen slips on a half a dozen trips 

And the very latest bursting of the bubble? 
Then list while I relate this most unhappy fate; 

'Tis a dreadful knotty puzzle to unravel, 
Though all the papers swore, when we touched Virginia's 
shore. 
That Richmond was an easy road to travel. 

Then pull oflf your coat and roU up your sleeve, 

For Richmond's a hard road to travel. 
Then pull off your coat and roll up your sleeve, 
For Richmond's a hard road to travel, I believe. 

First McDowell, bold and gay, set forth the shortest way, 

By Manassas in the pleasant summer weather, 
But he quickly went and ran on a Stonewall, foolish man. 

And had a "rocky" journey altogether; 
For he found it rather hard to ride over Beauregard, 

And Johnston proved a deuce of a bother. 
And 'twas clear beyond a doubt that he didn't like the rout, 
And a second time would have to try another. 
Then pull off your coat and roll up your sleeve, 

For Richmond's a hard road to travel; 
Manassas gave us fits, and Bull Run it made us grieve — 
Oh! Richmond's a hard road to travel, I believe. 
45 



46 RICHMOND'S A HARD ROAD TO TRAVEL 

Next came the Woolly Horse, with an overwhelming force, 

To march down to Richmond by the Valley, 
But he couldn't find the road, and his "onward movement" 
showed 
His campaigning was a mere shilly-shally. 
And Commissary Banks, with his motley foreign ranks. 

The Dutchman and the Celt, not the Saxon, 
Lost the whole of his supplies, and, with tears in his eyes. 
Ran away from that dunder-headed Jackson. 
Then pull oflf your coat and roll up your sleeve. 

For Richmond's a hard road to travel; 
The Valley wouldn't do, as everybody knows, 
And Richmond's a hard road to travel, I suppose. 

Then the great Galena came, with her port-holes all aflame, 

And the Monitor, that famous naval wonder. 
But the guns at Drewry's bluff gave them speedily enough 

Of the loudest sort of real Rebel thunder: 
The Galena was astonished, and the Monitor admonished. 
And their efforts to ascend the stream were mocked at. 
While the dreadful Naugatuck, by the hardest kind of luck, 
Was very nearly knocked into a cocked hat. 
Then pull off your coat and roll up your sleeve. 

For Richmond's a hard road to travel; 
The gunboats gave it up in a stupefied despair, 
And Richmond is a hard road to travel, I declare. 

Then McClellan followed soon, with spade and with bal- 
loon. 

To try the Peninsula approaches, 
But one and all agreed that his best rate of speed 

Wasn't faster than the slowest of "slow coaches;" 
Instead of easy ground, at WUliamsburg he found 

A Longstreet, indeed, and nothing shorter. 



RICHMOND'S A HARD ROAD TO TRAVEL 47 

And it put him in the dumps that spades wasn't trumps 
And the Hills he couldn't level as he "orter." 
Then pull off your coat and roll up your sleeve, 

For Richmond's a hard road to travel; 
Lay down the shovel and fling away the spade. 
For Richmond's a hard road to travel, I'm afraid. 

He tried the Rebel lines, on the field of Seven Pines, 
Where his troops did such awful heavy chargin' — 
But he floundered in the mud, and he saw 'a stream of blood 

Overflow the Chickahominy's sweet margin; 
Though the fact seems rather strange, when he left his 
gunboats' range. 
On land he drifted overmuch to Lee- ward. 
So he quickly "changed his base," in a sort of steeplechase. 
And hurried back to Stanton, Abe and Seward. 
Then pull off your coat and roll up your sleeve, 

For Richmond's a hard road to travel; 
We shouldn't be surprised that McClellan took to drink- 
ing, 
For Richmond's a hard road to travel, I'm a-thinking. 

Then said Lincoln unto Pope, "You can make the trip, I 
hope." 
Quoth the bragging Major-general, "Yes, that I can," 
And began to issue orders to his terrible marauders, 

Just like another Leo of the Vatican; 
But that same demented Jackson this fellow laid his whacks 
on. 
And made him by compulsion a Seceder, 
And Pope took a rapid flight from Manassas' second fight — 
'Twas his very last appearance as a leader. 

Then pull off your coat and roll up your sleeve. 
For Richmond's a hard road to travel; 



48 RICHMOND'S A HARD ROAD TO TRAVEL 

Pope tried his very best, and was evidently sold. 
And Richmond's a hard road to travel, I am told. 

Last of all the brave Burnside, with his pontoon bridges, 
tried 
A road no one had thought of before him. 
With two hundred thousand men for the Rebel "slaughter 
pen," 
And the blessed Union flag a-flying o'er him; 
But he met "a fire of hell," of canister and shell. 
Enough to make the knees of any man knock; 
'Twas a shocking sight to view, that second Waterloo, 
On the banks of the pleasant Rappahannock. 
Then pull off your coat and roll up your sleeve. 

For Richmond's a hard road to travel; 
'Twas a shocking sight to view, that second Waterloo, 
And Richmond's a bloody road to travel, it is true. 

We are very much perplexed to know who'll try it next. 

And to guess by what new highroad he may go, 
But the capital must blaze, and that ia ninety days, 

For 'tis written, Delenda est Carthago — 
We'll take the cursed town, and then we'll burn it down, 

And plunder and hang up every rebel — 
Yet the contraband was right when he told us they would 

fight— 
"Oh, yis, marsa, they'll fight like the debble." 

Then pull off your coat and roll up your sleeve. 

For Richmond's a hard road to travel; 
We've played our strongest card, and 'tis plain that we 

are slammed. 
And if Richmond ain't a hard road to travel, I'll be — 
blamed ! 



VIRGINIA FUIT5 

" The name of the commonwealth is past and gone." 

— Btbon, Ode to Venice. 

Consummatum — the work of destruction is done. 
The race of the first of the States has been run. 
The guile of her foes finds her triumph at last. 
And Virginia, like Poland, belongs to the past. 

How her story the heart's deepest reverence stirs, 
What a stature, antique and heroic, was hers. 
What a grace, what a glory, her presence adorning. 
In the fresh, dewy light of Liberty's morning. 

In that day of her early espousals she came 
With her dowry of empire, her birthright of fame. 
To enrich and ennoble on land and on sea 
The Republic her Washington's valor made free. 

And what greatness resplendent it won, through her love. 
Let the eloquent page of the annalist prove, 
W^herein, though the page is now blotted with tears, 
Virginia but ever as Empress appears. 

The nation's decrees did her counsellors mould,^ 
And her orators' words were as apples of gold; 
Her captains triumphant, afloat and ashore. 
Gave the banner of Union the brightness it bore. 

And for this, that her children disgraced not their sires. 
That they strove to keep lighted their liberty fires. 
That they hailed her as rightfully wearing the crown. 
For this have her enemies trampled her down. 
49 



50 VIRGINIA FUIT 

How low she lies now, stript of half her domaiB, 
Bewailing her sons who in battle were slain, 
With the shade of an infinite sadness upon her, 
And all she loved dearest, all lost but her honor! 

Thank heaven ! that is safe : with a madness accurst, 
Let the tyrants that rule for the hoiu- do their worst; 
She may bleed 'neath the heel of the hireling invader. 
They may spoil, they may rend, but they cannot de- 
grade her. 

Let them subjugate nature — enraged, let them seek 
To drain the broad waste of the blue Chesapeake, 
Let them seal up the sources whence rushes Bull Run, 
And shut out from the Valley the face of the sun: 

Let them falsify fact, without conscience or ruth. 
Let them paralyze justice and manacle Truth; 
(Fair Truth, we accept of their poet the line. 
That the years of the Godhead eternal are thine). 

Yet the record remains: in the garment of song 
The legend of Jackson her praise shall prolong. 
And Veritas Virens, crushed down though it be. 
Shall spring to the light in the story of Lee! 

From the anguish abysmal where prostrate she lies 

Virginia the Desolate never may rise; 

For already the iron has entered her s6ul. 

And behold, at the foimtain, aU broken the bowl. 

But of just retribution there cometh the day; 
The Master has promised it — I will bepay — 
And wo to the people he smites with His rod 
In that terrible day of the vengeance of God ! 



THE GREEK SLAVE, OF POWERS 

It is not that the sculptor's patient toil 
Gives sweet expression to the poet's dream — 
It is not that the cold and rigid stone 
Is taught to mock the human face diviae, 
That silently we stand before her form 
And feel in a holy presence there. 
But in those fair, calm lineaments of hers, 
All pure and passionless, we catch the glow. 
The bright intelligence of soul infused. 
And tender memories of gentle things 
And sorrowing innocence and hopeful trust, 
The perfect utt'rance of ideal grace. 
Life-like as Hermione, there she stands 
As if her bosom throbbed with high designs 
And those celestial lips would part in speech 
To tell the brief sad story of her wrongs ! 

In some secluded vale of Arcady, 
In playful gambols o'er its siuiny slopes, 
Had nature led her childish feet to stray. 
Or she had watched the blue Egean wave 
Dash on the sands of "sea-born Salamis." 
Or, in her infant sports, had simk to sleep. 
Beneath the wasting shadow of that porch 
Whose sculptured gods, upon its crumbling front. 
Reveal the glories of a by-gone age. 
There, watered by affection's richest dews 
And the warm teardrops of maternal love. 
This lovely flow'ret, day by day, grew up 
In beauty and in fragrance. Such the line, 
51 



52 THE GREEK SLAVE, OF POWERS 

That marked the short and simple chronicle, 

Of life's clear morning. Soon the spoiler came, 

The mercenary Turk with horse and spear, 

And this meek blossom rudely tore away 

To deck the harem of some brutal lord. 

A long and toilsome road they took, and oft 

In the warm twilight of a summer's eve. 

This lovely girl had fallen in the path. 

Weary and sick at heart. And then a tide 

Of gushing recollections quickly came 

From the feeling's fount "to ope the source of tears," 

And her young spirit bowed in anguish there; 

Like Israel's captives when, by Babel's stream. 

Remembering Sion, they sat down and wept! 

Her ear perchance had caught a passing strain. 

Some well-known melody of youthful days. 

And she had feebly lisped a prayer to God 

That she might live to see her childhood's hills 

And look again into her mother's face. 

As when in foreign climes the Switzer hears 

That wild eflFusion of his native Alps, 

The thrilling Ranz des Vaches, he longs to climb 

In freedom once again the chamois track 

Of his remembered home. 

And now a slave. 
Fettered and friendless in the market-place 
Of that imperial city of the East, 
Whose thousand minarets at eve resound 
With the muezzin's sunset call to prayer. 
She stands exposed to the unhallowed gaze 
And the rude jests of ev'ry passer by. 
There in her loveliness, disrobed for sale. 
Girt with no vesture save her purity. 



THE GREEK SLAVE, OF POWERS 53 

A ray of placid resignation beams 

In ev'ry line of her sweet countenance, 

And on the lip a half disdainful ciu*l 

Proclaims the helpless victim in her chains 

Victorious in a woman's modesty ! 

There does the poor dejected slave display 

A mien the fabled goddess could not wear, 

A look and gesture that might well beseem 

Some seraph from that bright meridian shore 

Where walk the angels of the Christian creed ! 

Sweet visions cheered the sculptor's lonely hours, 

And glorious images of heavenly mould 

Came trooping at his call, as blow by blow, 

The marble yielded to his constant toil. 

And when he gave his last informing touch 

And raised the chisel from that radiant brow, 

And gazed upon the work of his own hands 

So cimningly struck out from shapeless stone, 

His eyes dilated with a conscious joy 

That patient effort with enduring life 

Had clothed his beauteous and majestic child! 

Such are thy triumphs, genius, such rewards 
As far outweigh all perishable gifts. 
Ingots of silver and barbaric gold 
And all the trophies of tiaraed pride ! 

New York City, September, 1847. 



DEDICATION HYMN^ 

LoED ! Thou hast said when two or three 
Together come to worship Thee, 
Thy presence, fraught with richest grace. 
Shall ever fill and bless the place. 

Then let us feel, as here we raise 
A temple to Thy matchless praise. 
The blest assurance of Thy love 
As it is felt in realms above. 

Lord ! here upon Tby sacred day 
Teach us devoutly how to pray. 
Our weakness let Thy strength supply, 
Nor to our darkness light deny. 

Here teach our flattering tongues to sing 
The glories of the Heavenly King, 
And let our aspirations rise 
To seek the Saviour in the skies. 

And when at last in life's decline 
This earthly temple we resign. 
May we, O Lord ! enjoy with Thee 
The Sabbaths of eternity. 



54 



LA MORGUES 

In the great and noisy city. 

By the waters of the Seine, 
Where across her hundred bridges 

Paris pours a living train; 
Far beneath the gloomy shadow 

Of high arches overhead, 
Humid, dark, repulsive, sombre. 

Stands the mansion of the dead ! 

Onward rolls the sparkling water 

Gaily as if Father Time 
Ne'er had seen it red with slaughter 

In the carnival of crime; 
Onward by a stately palace 

And by gardens fair and green 
Where of old the jewelled chalice 

Met the kisses of a queen; 

When the bright though transient moments. 

Bubbles bursting as they rise. 
Still went by, a magic circle 

Of recurring fantasies: 
And o'er all there sat in splendor 

She whose beauty from afar 
Flashed above the faint horizon 

Like the joyous morning star! 

But there is a massive prison, 

BuUt upon the river-side. 
From whose vaults have vainly risen 

Lamentations to the tide: 
55 



56 LA MORGUE 

And within its dusky portals 
Passed this yet heroic queen 

To retrace her footsteps never 
Till she seeks the guillotine ! 

Seine! in all thy tortuous courses, 

From the piu-ple vine-clad steep, 
Down by Rouen's grim cathedral 

To the billows of the deep, 
Never has thy face reflected 

Aught so terrible to see 
As the sullen architecture 

Of the Conciergerie ! 

Dark La Morgue hath had its tenants, 

When in panoply arrayed. 
Death unfurled his horrid pennants 

O'er each bloody barricade: 
There today a corse is carried * 

Slowly through the moving crowd, 
By the world all unregarded. 

Wrapped in neither sheet nor shroud ! 

As the light reveals the features 

To some idler of the throng. 
Soft he says a pater noster. 

Moves with rapid step along 
While above the wasted body 

Bends a weeping child to trace 
But the perishing resemblance 

To an aged father's face- 
When Apollo's steeds are driven 

Frantic through the eastern sky 



LA MORGUE 57 

Her affection's tears are given 

O'er a form too fair to die. 
Fondly still the mourner lingers 

When the sun at even calm 
Falls aslant upon the turrets 

Of majestic Notre Dame ! 

'Tis perhaps some youthful maiden 

From thy sunny banks, Garonne, 
With a thousand graces laden 

Who no thought of care has known, 
And her life's brief, gentle morning — 

Ever from its earliest ray 
Home's sequestered paths adorning — 

Kindled into perfect day. 

Oft when rung the solemn vesper 

Out upon the drowsy air 
She had walked in meek devotion 

To repeat her simple prayer; 
And with tearful sadness kneeling 

In the chapel hushed and dim 
Upward had her glance ascended 

To the radiant seraphim ! 

Now she lies in stony silence. 

Stretched upon the brazen bier; 
Of her kindred, none to offer 

E'en the tribute of a tear. 
With no semblance of expression 

On the cold and pallid lips. 
And those eyes that beamed so brightly 

Quenched in lustreless eclipse. 



58 LA MORGUE 



Such as this the daily lessons 

That to man La Morgue would teach. 
Yet they pass as little pondered 

As the eloquence of speech: 
Loud the din of worldly pleasure 

While around us flashing flies 
Life, with its delusive phantoms 

And its empty pageantries! 



TO MISS AMELIE LOUISE RIVES 

[on her departure for France] 

Lady! that bark will be more richly freighted 

That bears thee proudly on to foreign shores 
Than argosies of which old poets prated. 

With Colchian fleece or with Peruvian ores; 
And should the prayers of friendship prove availing 

That trusting hearts now offer up for thee 
'Twill ride the crested wave with braver sailing 

Than ever pinnace on the Pontic sea. 

The sunny land thou seekest o'er the billow 

May boast indeed the honors of thy birth. 
And they may keep a vigil round thy pillow 

Whom thou dost love most dearly upon earth. 
Yet shall there not remain with thee a vision, 

Some lingering thought of happy faces here. 
Fonder and fairer than the dreams elysian 

Wherein thy future's radiant hues appear? 

The high and great shall render thee obeisance 

In halls bedecked with tapestries of gold. 
And mansions shall be brighter for thy presence 

Where swept the stately Medicis of old — 
Still 'mid the pomp of all this courtly lustre 

I cannot think that thou wilt all forget 
The pleasing fantasies that thickly cluster 

Around the walls of the old homestead yet! 



59 



PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE » 

One gifted child thou hadst who reached in vain 

The vast propylon of the gleaming fane. 

'Twas his to see the columns pure and white 

Of marble and of ranged chrysolite — 

The lines of jasper through the golden gates — 

Alas ! no more was suffered by the Fates — 

Like Baldur, fairest of the sons of morning, 

The halls of Odin lustrously adorning, 

He early caught the pale, blue, fearful glance 

Of shadowy Hela's awful countenance. 

Lamented Cooke ! if all that love could lend 

To the chaste scholar and the faithful friend. 

If all the spoiler forced us to resign 

In the calm virtues of a life like thine 

Could bid him turn his fatal dart aside 

From our young Lycidas, thou hadst not died. 

Peace to the Poet's shade ! His ashes rest 

Near the sweet spot he loved on earth the best — 

The modest daisies from the siirface peeping 

As from the sod where Florence Vane lies sleeping. 

While his own river murmurs as it flows 

Perpetual requiem o'er his soft repose. 



60 



PROPOSED SALE OF THE NATURAL BRIDGE lo 

A SALE ! A sale ! Earth's proudest things are daily bought 

and sold, 
And art and nature coincide in bowing down to gold. 
Alas ! at such a sale as this sad thoughts within us rise 
Until the Bridge becomes to us a very Bridge of Sighs. 

Ho ! citizens of Lexington, ho ! keepers of the springs, 
To whom the Bridge a revenue in transient travel brings. 
Rebuke the cruel auctioneer with your severest frown 
Before in his destructiveness he seeks to knock it down! 

At least, ere he proceeds to such extremity as that. 

Be good enough to bid him first remember what he's at. 

Let even-handed justice, too, cry loudly in his ears 

That he should give this ancient Bridge a trial by its piers. 

Now, by the bones of Captain Smith, how shall he dare to 
cry 

(For crying's his "vocation, Hal," though with unmois- 
tened eye) ? 

That this great span which hath endured for centuries un- 
known, 

At bidding of a purchaser is going, going, gone! 

Oh, for a Wordsworth's flowing lines to sonnetize the Bridge 
And paint in Tiutern Abbey tints the Valley and the Ridge, 
But what's words worth in such a task as lies before us here, 
As little as to give the face of placid Windermere. 

61 



62 PROPOSED SALE OF THE NATURAL BRIDGE 

The only ode, O noble Bridge, that should be sung to thee 
Is heard among the mountain pines and heard upon the lea, 
A Miserere lofty as that anthem of the siu-ge 
When on the sunset strand it chants the day's departing 
dirge. 

The earth is full of stately works of monumental pride — 
The famed Rialto thrown above the dark Venetian tide — 
And pyramids and obelisks of ages passed away — 
And friezes of Pentelicus majestic in decay: — 

But arches, domes, colossal piles that human skill has 

wrought, 
All, all, when in comparison with thy proportions brought. 
Are fleeting as the palaces fantastically vaui 
That Russian monarchs rear in ice on Neva's frozen plain ! 

A Saxon priest once stood beneath the Coliseum's wall 
And augured that the globe itself should topple with its 

fall! 
Oh, when this mighty arch of stone shall from its base be 

hurled 
An elemental war shall work the ruin of the world! 



TO INTEMPERANCE 

Disastrous Power, that with gigantic stride 

Hast stalked so long in triumph through the land, 
Crushing to earth alike her strength and pride 

And reckoning victims by the grains of sand 

That whiten on Sahara's arid strand, 
With joy I see thy kingdom's latter days 

Writ on the wall by more than earthly hand, 
Such joy as moved the shepherd when the blaze 
Of Bethlehem's holy star first burst upon his gaze. 

Thou "scourge of God" more dire than he of old," 

Thou "Mighty Murderer!" mightier than the Greek ^^ 
Were the dim record of thy reign vmroUed, 

That simple volume would a language speak 

Stern as the thunder upon Sinai's peak; 
For stand engraved upon its bloody page, 

'Mid countless millions of the obscure and weak. 
Names that have cast a halo rovmd the age 
That gave them birth; the bard, the hero, and the sage. 

Even as the worst dark tyrant ^^ that old Rome 

Brought forth, to curse the earth, in her decay. 
When tired of vulgar murder, from its home 

Dragged imoffending genius into day. 

Not to reward its owner, but to slay. 
So thy imdying appetite for blood. 

Gorged to repletion on ignobler prey. 
Seeks a fresh stimulant in daintier food 
And feasts upon the wise, the valiant, and the good. 



64 TO INTEMPERANCE 

The Juggernaut of India's palmy days, 

The fiery Moloch of the olden time 
Breathed, 'mid their brute adorers' stupid gaze 

An atmosphere replete with blood and crime. 

Each in his separate sphere; but neither clime 
Nor era limits thy immense domain. 

O'er the wide earth thy sceptre waves sublime, 
Its countless nations wear thy clanking chain — 
With the great flood itself began thy deadly reign." 



TO MRS. S. P. Q .. . ., ON HER MARRIAGE 

Deak lady ! pardon me the crime 
If haply my too careless rhjane 
Disturb, at this auspicious time, 

A mother's soft caressings; 
While yet thine eyes are moist and dim 
With recent tears, and round the rim 
Of Joy's bright cup, now filled to him, 

There dance a thousand blessings. 

I have not known thee well, nor long; 
Our meeting was amid the throng; 
The cadence of the passing song 

Was scarce more quickly ended: 
But with thine xmobtrusive grace. 
The fond remembrance of thy face. 
Which time nor change may e'er erase, 

What kindly thoughts are blended. 

Henceforth thy childhood's life shall be 
A habitation shut to thee. 
And lost for aye the golden key 

To all its wayward fancies: 
And girlhood's giddy time shall seem 
The sweet illusion of a dream 
Or as some half forgotten theme 

From out the old romances. 

But grieve not, lady ! on the past, 
'T was all too beautiful to last; 
Thy future's lines may yet be cast 
In "places" quite as "pleasant": 
65 



66 TO MRS. S. P. Q ON HER MARRIAGE 

And others seek with friendship's wile, 
Thy gentle sorrows to beguile, 
As tenderly as they whose smUe 
Makes glad the fleeting present. 

'T is sad to leave the haunted glade. 
The homestead where thy presence made 
A mellow sunshine in the shade. 

Like Wordsworth's highland beauty; 
But he whose arms thy footsteps stays 
Shall lead thee through the coming days 
Along the green and quiet ways 

Of holy faith and duty. 

And thus with all that love endears. 
With him to share thy hopes and fears, 
May'st thou live on, till added years 

Of age give timely warning: 
Then be it thine on joys to muse 
That still around thy path diflfuse 
A radiance softer than the hues 

Of life's unclouded morning. 



A DIRGE 

[for the funeral solemnities of zachary taylor] 

Again the cold, insatiate grave 
Has newly closed above the brave; 
Again in solemn form we meet 
A chieftain's virtue to repeat — 
Bedew with tears the laurel leaf. 
And sing the low, sad dirge of grief. 

The cord is loosed, but lives he yet. 
His star in glory's azure set, 
His name embalmed in freedom's songs. 
His fame upon ten thousand tongues, 
And his a triumph in the skies 
Beyond all earthly victories ! 

Lord ! give us strength, as he was strong. 
To serve our country well and long — 
And when the summons comes to go. 
May we the blest assurance know 
That lighted up his glazing eye. 
That we are still "prepared to die!" 



67 



INVOCATION 

THE VOICE OF RICHMOND TO PHINEAS T. BARNUM 

Wer liebt nicht Wein, Weib und Gesang, 
Der bleibt ein Narr sein Lebenlang. 

LUTHEE. 



The poet in- 
viteth the 
Manager to 
visit Virginia 
with Jenny 
Lind. 



Babntjm ! heed the fond petitions 

We would whisper in your ear, 
Bonaparte of exhibitions, 

Brmg the Swedish songstress here, 
We would catch the strain of Circe, 

But without her fatal glance — 
Barnum! for the love of mercy, 

Let us have a single chance ! 



The poet sug- 
gests that, for 
want of a 
great room, the 
nightingale shall 
sing in the open 
air. 



Do not yet that heart so harden 

That within your waistcoat beats, 
If no Spacious Castle Garden 

Offers here 10,000 seats; 
For much greater than Tedesco, 

This new prodigy of yours 
Here can simply sing al fresco, 

And yet fill "all out of doors." 



And offers to 
write for him 
a prize song 
at half price. 



And since Bayard Taylor's verses 

Did not meet with much success, 
But provoked the heavy curses 

Of eight hundred bards, or less, 
I will write some vastly better 

To the tune of "Dearest Mae," 
And you shall remain my debtor 

Only for one-half his pay.^^ 



INVOCATION 



69 



The hospitali- 
ties of the 
town are freely 
tendered. 



Come then, noble Corypheus 

Of the wonders of the world, 
Bring the nightingale to see us, 

Here be Sweden's flag unfurled. 
In the town of Richmond, I know, 

You can gather — for a song — 
Loud applauses and the rhino. 

"Say, why don't you come along?' 



The Manager 
is invoked to 
consent by all 
the memories 
of his past 
renown. 



By the Fame of the Museum, 

(Type of Yankee enterprise, 
Let it be yom* mausoleum). 

By the light of Jenny's eyes — 
By the wonders of the former — 

By the shade of aged Joyce, — ^^ 
By the pruning-hook of Norma, 

Let us hear the charmer's voice ! 



TO JENNY HERSELF 

Having pleaded with Barnum, and pleaded in vain, 

To bring you among us, fair Empress of Song, 
A voice more persuasive our muse would attain 

The gentle petition with you to prolong: 
Then whilst the town wits are discussing your style 

And the papers assail you with censure and praise. 
Bid Tribune and Tripler adieu for awhile 

And sing for us some of your exquisite lays ! 

Our critics who've heard you in Gotham declare 

That frigid and feigned your soprano appears. 
And, while it ascends to the uppermost air. 

It never unseals the soft fountain of tears — 
That, like some huge iceberg in boreal seas. 

With pinnacles bathed in the sunlight above. 
Is sparkles to chUl us and glitters to freeze. 

Thus challenging wonderment rather than love. 

It may be, indeed, that no passion combines 

With the skill you employ among people so cold. 
As the bird for a sunnier atmosphere pines 

When he sings in a cage, though the bars are of gold; 
Then turn to a region less socially bleak 

Where your welcome shall spring from the depths of the 
heart. 
Where the glad ray of soul shall illumine your cheek 

And feeling give warmth to the eflForts of Art! 



70 



JENNY LIND " 

NUNC EST BIBENDUM 

Come fill the cup of jubilee, 

And raise a gaudeamus. 
For venting thus our Christmas glee 

No cynic sure can blame us: 
We echo but the daily press — 

The joy of Mr. Ritchie— 
Our own delight is none the less 

We've heard the cantatrice! 

Oh, sweet are Jenny's winning ways. 

And pure is her soprano. 
And excellently well she plays 

Upon the grand piano: 
And like an angel's is the smile 

That o'er her features bright'ning 
Still flashes round her, all the while. 

Its vivid summer-lightning. 

How shall we speak of that brief dream 

That passed so quickly o'er us. 
Wherein we caught the radiant gleam 

And heard the heavenly chorus 
Awhile we walked adown the lawn 

Of early, beauteous Eden, 
Or strayed at rosy break of dawn 

Along the hills of Sweden. 
71 



72 JENNY LIND 

And when, next day, her coach and pair . 

Were to the depot driven, 
We stood like PUgrim at the Fair 

When Faithful flew to heaven. 
Alas ! the bird, indeed, had flown 

On lightest, swiftest pinions, 
To seek a yet more sunny zone 

Among the Carolinians. 



A RETROSPECT OF 1849 

Thebe is a solemn peal of midniglit bells, ' 
Heard from the distant horologe of Time, 

That marks the closing year, and sadly tells, 
"With sullen roar," its darkened deeds of crime. 
In what a mournful, though expressive chime, 

Drearier than monotone, shall it bewail 

, The twelve-month newly gone — what "Runic rhyme' 

Shall it employ, to give the tragic tale 

Of all its scenes of blood and terror to the gale? 

How shall it toll of India's thousands slain? 

"India is quiet," says the Morning Post, 
"The last despatches tell of order's reign." 

"Order" that Selkirk found upon the coast 

Of the lone island where his bark was tost — 
"Order," such as the sacred record saith 

Reigned in the tents of the Assyrian host. 
When, touched by the dread angel's blighting breath. 
The proud, exulting foe lay hushed in stony death. 

O mother country ! home of all the arts, 

Seat of all wisdom, learning, justice, grace, 
A bright example your career imparts 

The trans-Atlantic oflF-shoot of your race; 

For when the triumphs of your arms we trace 
From proud Benares to Moultan, we may know 

How Christian nations can despoil, deface 
The fairest cities of a Heathen foe, 
If costly gems and gold reward them as they go ! 
73 



74 A RETROSPECT OF 1849 

Sweet Lady — thou that wear'st the coronet 
Of England's sovereignty — we call thy name 

In kindness: let no pillaged pearls be set 
Among thy jewels; let thy gentle fame 
Be all unmixed with memories of shame; 

Lift up the Irish people: make it known 
A Queen can answer Nature's last acclaim. 

And the bright emerald on thy brow that shone, 

Shall flash as never flashed the Ko-hi-noor's rich stone. 

But in the hurried retrospective glance 

Which we would take of the departing year, 
How shall we blush for the Republic, France, 

That she among the spoilers should appear? 

Who has not shed the sympathising tear 
For freedom stifled in Rienzi's home, 

That men who boast their liberty should rear 
Their frowning guns to shatter arch and dome 
Upon the sacred hills of everlasting Rome ! 

And Kossuth, valiant leader of the brave, 
How have we read the story of thy fall ! 

What though the Austrian ensign yet may wave 
Its crimsoned folds o'er Brescia's prostrate wall, — 
The Grecian maids that decked the coronal 

With laurels fresh and fragrant for the free, 
Who rushed to victory at their country's call, 

Where classic "Marathon looks on the sea," 

No brighter garland wove than we would twine for thee ! 

Yet are there others that deserve the wreath, 
Venice, thy sons, who in the hour of dread, 

Drew forth the blade and threw away the sheath, 
While starving women cried aloud for bread — 



A RETROSPECT OF 1849 75 

Could Harrow render back its noble dead. 
The Poet-hero whose resounding line 

Once mourned thy fallen state, thy grandeur fled, 
Inspired by this new "tale of Troy devalue," 
Should lift, to hj^mn thy praise, a statelier ode than mine. 

And what of young Columbia, Freedom's child, 

What crime of hers is borne upon the breeze? 
The Western "Pallas armed and un defiled," 

Is she yet stainless upon land and seas? 

Yes ! she obeys the Almighty's high decrees, 
And grows abundantly beneath His care. 

Like the great monarch of the Indian trees 
Which spreads its props abroad, its weight to share. 
And sends its branches high into the topmost air. 

Still a fell spirit is abroad to-day, 

A blind fanaticism, which would wage 
A war upon her rule, and cast away 

The glorious promise of maturer age — 

Forbear, rash zealots, your ignoble rage. 
For he whose folly brings Disunion's train. 

Shall stand upon a future Gibbon's page 
The Erostratus of a loftier fane 
Than earth, throughout all time, shall ever see again. 



SONNETS TO WINTER 

It was a remark of one of the Spanish kings that the four great- 
est blessings in life were Old Wine to Drink, Old Wood to Burn, 
Old Books to Read, and Old Friends to Love. 



OLD WINE TO DRINK 

Yes ! fill the goblet high with generous wine. 
As sparkling as the draughts of ancient Massie 
Or old Falernian made by Horace classic. 
Brought from the sunny valleys of the Rhine 
And throwing off their daughter's brilliant glances- 
Just as the diamond, long obscured from sight, 
With all the rays it last absorbed is bright. 
This wine, as o'er the festal board it dances. 
Gives back the flashes from the beaming eye 
Of the brown vineyard beauty, on our meeting: 
Fill up ! to friends a kind, a cordial greeting. 
And though December's winds may rustle by 
And lead the bowlings of the furious storm, 
Our faces kindle and our hearts are warm. 

II 

OLD WOOD TO BUBN 

Old wood to burn ! — hew down the highest trunk 
On Alleghanean ridges, seen afar — 
A monarch crowned with his imperial star — 

Against the crimson where the sun has sunk. 

The sharp axe, glittering in his kingly heart, 
Sends echo ringing through the golden woods — 
And then a crashing fall ! — like bursting floods 
76 



SONNETS TO WINTER 77 

When roar the surges and great mountains part! 
The dim year wanes — ^I see an indoor sight — 
Bright faces gathered roimd a blazing fire 
At Yule or Pentecost when rising higher. 
The frolic-mirth draws gladness from the light — 
Of that old oak that towering once so vast. 
Laughed at the storm, and whistled at the blast ! 

Ill 

OLD BOOKS TO READ 

Reach from their dusty places of repose 
A Virgil's lay or "Livy's pictured page," 
The varied lore of an Augustan age — 

What visions panoramic they disclose ! 

With o'er attentive faculties we hear 

The wandering minstrelsy of Scio's bard — 
Poor houseless tenant of a life ill-starred — 

Or catch the minster music of the seer 

Chanting of Paradise "and all our wo." 

Then, with the Christian Pilgrim for our guide, 
We safely pass the dark and bridgeless tide 

To Beulah's land where flow'rets ever blow: 

Of Shakespeare's heroes trace the storied line. 

Or weigh the mercies of the Book divine ! 

IV 

OLD FRIENDS TO LOVE 

Old friends to love ! — true soul bound to true soul 
With olden memories, and traces dear 
Of the dead past, claiming the happy tear 

That still at sight of each will fondly roll ! 

Old friends 1 No sycophants of yesterday, 



78 SONNETS TO WINTER 

With smiles and protestations never done. 
Bright summer-flies, true "lovers of the sun" 

And all who bask beneath the golden ray. 

Old friends I who, on the battle-field of life, 
When closed the serried hosts in stormy fight, 
Have raised the buckler Friendship strong and bright 

And borne us bleeding from the mortal strife, 

Who heart-whole, pure in faith, once written friend. 

In life and death are true unto the end ! 



THE WINDOW-PANES AT BRANDON 

Upon the window-panes at Brandon, on James River, are inscribed 
the names, cut with a diamond ring, of many of those who composed 
the Christmas and May parties of that hospitable mansion in years 
gone by. 

As within the old mansion the holiday throng 

Reassembles in beauty and grace. 
And some eye looking out of the window by chance. 

These memorial records may trace — 
How the past, like a swift-coming haze from the sea, 

In an instant surrounds us once more. 
While the shadowy figures of those we have loved, 

All distinctly are seen on the shore ! 

Through the vista of years, stretching dimly away. 

We but look, and a vision behold — 
Like some magical picture the sunset reveals 

With its colors of crimson and gold, — 
All suffused with the glow of the hearth's ruddy blaze. 

From beneath the gay "mistletoe bough," 
There are faces that break into smiles as divinely 

As any that beam on us now. 

While the old year departing strides ghost-like along 

O'er the hUls that are dark with the storm. 
To the New the brave beaker is filled to the brim, 

And the play of affection is warm: 
Look once more — as the garlanded Spring reappears. 

In her footsteps we welcome a train 
Of fair women, whose eyes are as bright as the gem 

That has cut their dear names on the pane. 
79 



80 THE WINDOW-PANES AT BRANDON 

From the canvas of Vandyke or Kneller that hang 

On the old-fashioned wainscoted wall. 
Stately ladies, the favored of poets, look down 

On the guests and the revel and all; 
But their beauty, though wedded to eloquent verse. 

And though rendered immortal by Art, 
Yet outshines not the beauty that, breathing below. 

In a moment takes captive the heart. 

Many winters have since frosted over these panes 

With the tracery work of the rime; 
Many Aprils have brought back the birds to the lawn 

From some far-away tropical clime: 
But the guests of the season, alas! where aie they? 

Some the shores of the stranger have trod, 
And some names have been long ago carved on the stone. 

Where they sweetly rest under the sod. 

How uncertain the record ! the hand of a child 

In its innocent sport, unawares. 
May, at any time, lucklessly shatter the pane. 

And thus cancel the story it bears; 
Still a portion, at least, shall uninjured remain 

Unto trustier tablets consigned. 
The fond names that survive in the memory of friends 

Who yet linger a season behind. 

Recollect, young soul, with ambition inspired ! 

Let the moral be read as we pass; 
Recollect, the illusory tablets of fame 

Have been ever as brittle as glass; 
Oh, then be not content with the name there inscribed. 

For as well may you trace it in dust; 
But resolve to record it, where long it shall stand. 

In the hearts of the good and the just. 



TO BULWER 

[on a second beading of "the caxtons"] 

BuLWER, with brimming eyes I've read again 
That fireside fiction of thy riper years — 
And I could blend thanksgiving with my tears, 

If 'twould but please thee, but the thought is vain — 

And often, when my Blackwood domes, I find 
At "Sisty's" story my eyelids fill. 
As the rich thoughts and sentiments distil 

From the alembic of thy glowing mind: 

The spell of genius and the stamp of art 
In all thy former works the reader sees. 

But thou hast niched the "household gods" in these; 
They give a deep assm-ance of a heart 
Whose pulses beat in sympathy with man. 
And in harmonious chord with the Eternal Plan ! 



81 



TO ONE IN AFFLICTION 

Deab friend ! if word of mine could seal 
The bitter fount of all thy tears. 
And through the future's cloudy years 

Some glimpse of sunshine yet reveal — 

That word I might not dare to speak: 
A father's sorrow o'er his child 
So sacred seems and undefiled, 

To bid it cease we may not seek. 

Thy little boy has passed away 

From mortal sight and mortal love. 
To join the shining choir above 

And dwell amid the perfect day; 

All robed in spotless innocence. 
And fittest for celestial things, 
O'ershadowed by her rustling wings 

The angel softly led him hence: 

As pure as if the gentle rain 

Of his baptismal morn had sought 
His bosom's depths, and ev'ry thought 

Has sweetly cleansed from earthly stain. 

Such blest assurance brings, I know. 
To bleeding hearts but sad relief — 
The dark and troubled tide of grief 

Mtist have its painful ebb and flow — 
82 



TO ONE IN AFFLICTION 83 

And most of all when thou dost plod 

Alone, upon these wintry days, 

Along the old familiar ways 
Wherein his little feet have trod. 

And thou dost treasure up his words, 
The fragments of his earnest talk 
On some remembered morning walk, 

When, at the song of earliest birds. 

He'd ask of thee, with charmed look. 
And smile upon his features spread, 
Whose careful hand the birds had fed. 

And filled the ever-rxmning brook? 

Or viewing, from the distant glade. 
The dim horizon round his home. 
With simplest speech and air would come 

And ask why were the moimtains made? 

Be strong, my friend, these days of doom 
Are but the threads of darkest hue 
That daily enter to renew 

The warp of the Eternal Loom. 

And when to us it shall be given 

In joy to see the other side. 

These threads the brightest shall abide 
In the fair tapestries of Heaven! 



VIOLANTE 

[sketched from "my novel" by bulwer] 

Alack! for Violante — 

We've sought for her in vain, 
Beneath the lime-tree's pleasant shade 

In every walk and lane: 
The proud old house is desolate, 

Its inmates sad to see — 
That bright Italian maiden, 

Alas ! where can she be ? 

The beauteous Violante, 

Alone, was latest seen 
Just where the marble fountain 

Tossed up its sunset sheen — 
But when the darkness gathered fast 

The lofty halls along. 
She came no more to gladden them 

With love and grace and song. 

The cruel Violante ! 

Her father's face is pale 
And ever faithful Giacomo 

Can only "weep and wail," 
Now, Holy Mother, guard us ! 

It was a grievous wo 
The darling child should blindly trust 

The father's deadliest foe. 
- 84 



VIOLANTE 85 

The hapless Violante ! 

Could she avoid the snare. 
Which wily, wicked hands had set 

For innocence so rare? 
Alas for gentle girlishness ! 

When first it shall begin 
To hear, but too confidingly. 

The charmed voice of sin. 

The saint-like Violante 

Yet walks from harm secure, 
The demon Count can work no ill 

Unto a thing so pure; 
For all her soft humanities, 

Which kept us in control. 
Are but celestial messengers 

That wait upon her soul. 

The queenly Violante 

Shall come to us again. 
With troops of gallant gentlemen 

And nobles in her train; 
And we will twine a bridal wreath 

And deck the festal hall. 
For she shall wed in honor there 

The noblest of them all! 



TO 

[on being asked by her to write verses for her singing] 

From jewelled goblets we demand 

The choicest wme alone — 
And statues from the master's hand 

Should be of whitest stone. 
Then wherefore ask for words of mine? 

The thought itself were wrong; 
Thy glorious voice should but enshrine 

The purest pearls of song ! 



86 



BENEDICITE 

I SAW her move along the aisle — 
The chancel lustres burned the while — 
With bridal roses in her hair; 
Oh ! never seemed she half so fair. 

A manly form stood by her side. 
We knew him worthy such a bride: 
And prayers went up to God above 
To bless them with immortal love. 

The vow was said. I know not yet 
But some were filled with fond regret: 
So much a part of us she seemed 
To lose her quite we had not dreamed. 

Like the "fair Ines," loved, caressed. 
She went into the shining West, 
And though one heart with joy flowed o'er. 
Like her, she saddened many more. 

Lady ! though far from childhood's things 
Thy gentle spirit folds its wings. 
We offer now for him and thee 
A tearful Benedicite ! 



87 



UNWRITTEN MUSIC 

Could I but all the glorious sounds combine 
That sometimes fill the chambers of my soul, 

Songs of this earth and melodies divine. 
In one majestic whole — 

A brave composer I might be confest. 

And roimd the world my humble name might ring. 
With richest honors and ascriptions drest 

For what I then should sing. 

AU jocund, jubilant, rejoiceful airs — 
The elfin mirth of fair Titania's train — 

The laugh of L' Allegro, dispelling cares, 
Should sweetly swell the strain. 

The tinkling bells of cattle homeward bent. 
Wafted o'er fragrant meadows, should unite 

With childhood's loud, capricious merriment. 
In many-toned delight. 

The lull of falling waters, and the store 
Of feathered music, from the Asian trees, 

Should meet and mingle with the distant roar 
Of everlasting seas. 

The silvery voice of woman, such as oft 

In mystic dreamland round about us swims. 

Should join with tones descending full and soft 
From saintly choral hymns. 
88 



UNWRITTEN MUSIC 89 

The clang of trumpets, ere the combat cease. 
War's proudest note, to sweet accord should come 

With that dear anthem of abundant Peace — 
The laborer's Harvest-Home. 

Alas ! I never shall these sounds combine. 
This new "Creation" is not yet for me. 

These richest honors I can but resign: 
Another's may they be! 

Still shall I praise the Giver of all Good 

That, in my waking and my nightly dreams. 

Upon my raptured sense this glorious flood 
Of wondrous music streams. 



WEBSTER 

OCTOBEB 24, 1852 



The boom of sad artillery is heard 

Through mightiest commonwealths, from shore to shore, 
Webster now sleeps, "life's fitful fever" o'er. 

The man of intellect, whose single word 

The depths of human sentiment has stirred, — 

These refluent tides shall own his sway no more: — 
The Eloquent of speech, who dared to soar 

With tireless wing of Appalachian bird, 

Right upward to serene, unclouded skies: 
Let thunder then from funeral grnis resound, 
And banners droop in sorrow to the ground, 

And tears start freshly from "a nation's eyes" 
Yet dim with weeping o'er the heroic dust 
Of his two stately peers, the gifted and the just ! 

II 

If he had foibles, let us kindly fling 

Oblivion's mantle here above them all, 

And in this hour of grief alone recall 
Those nobler virtues that can ever spring 
From littleness of soul; and let us bring 

Some flowers as fadeless to bedeck his pall 

As those on which his fancy's sunbeams fall, — • 
And let our future poets learn to sing 
How in the Senate house he stood erect, 

90 



WEBSTER 91 

And battled always for his Country's cause, — 
Her shrines, her Constitution and her laws, — 
And how, when treason rose from Faction's sect. 
He turned Columbia's aegis on the crime 
And froze it into silence for all time ! 

ni 

My country, mother of the mighty ! thou 
That sitt'st in stony anguish at the grave 
Where cypress branches, twined with laurel, wave. 

Dispel the shadow from thy luminous brow ! 

The God thou worshippest did ne'er allow 
The good, the great, the gifted or the brave 

To live or die for naught; and brightly now. 
Above the spots where fond affection gave 

Calhoun and Clay, the giant dead, to earth, 
A guiding star is blazing in the sky; 

So shall a beacon have its radiant birth 
From Webster's ashes, and so fixed on high. 

Its steady and immortal fires shall burn 

Wide over land and sea, whUe seasons yet return! 



A LETTER 

Richmond, 23 August, 1852. 
Deab Cooke: 

In Richmond still, against your shrewd surmise, 
I write your recent letters to acknowledge. 
And to narrate such gossip of the town 
As may to your amusement most conduce. 
The town itself is dull and hot, ye gods ! 
That Virgil placed in Tartarus — how hot ! 
And therefore little shall I have to tell 
Of gossip, or of other kind of news. 
Where naught is stirring save the mercury 
Along the vitreous tube of Fahrenheit. 
The streets present a kind of "aching void" 
Where, now and then, an omnibus appears 
Looking "like furnace," in the boUing sun. 
In which a single salamander sits. 
All trade is stopped; the carts of melons 
The Hanoverian vendors used to sell 
Have also disappeared; eleventh street 
Is left to Goddin and his crew alone 
Wrapped in the awful solitude 
Of their rapacious, grasping usury. 

'Tis well, my friend, you should affect to doubt 
My state of durance in the damned town. 
You perched high up upon a mountain range 
Where breezily and brightly comes the day 
In sunrise gorgeous (which you never see) 
92 



A LETTER 

And goes in pomp of crimson drapery, 

Curtained with clouds, which you spin out in verse- 

(The clouds, I mean, which make the verse obscure. 

Even while they give it their most radiant hue), 

'Tis well, I say, you should pretend to think 

I have escaped my prison, and away 

From bars of all sorts, taste the precious sweets 

Of liberty, that Lovelace praised so well. 

Alas ! I find that bars do make a cage, 

Not the dread Hustings' Bar nor yet our William's, 

Who waits so well at the American — 

Nor yet the bar below our wharves, where ships 

Do constitutionally stick i' the mud — 

But bars of duty, in the form of notes 

Due at the Farmer's Bank, and direful proofs — 

Proof never is but always to be read — 

For which Macfarlane waits: so 'twixt the two. 

The Printer and the President, Macs both, 

Deacon and devil, yet arcades amho? 

(Save the great diff'rence between "d" and "e") 

I stand as surely prisoner to the town 

As Althea's lover was to parliament. 

Yet like him "linnet-like confined, I" 

Can sing as gaily unto thee, my Cooke, 

Though not, perhaps, as sweetly, "cos, d'ye see.'^" 

You're not a nice yoimg woman like Althea. 

Then let me tell you once for all, again. 

That not for me the country breezes blow, 

That not for me the mountain lifts its head, 

That not for me the ocean crests its waves. 

But "cabined, cribbed," upon the land I stay, 

A hopeless cockney, with the bricks around 

And mortar, mortar everywhere in view. 



94 A LETTER 

We've had some politics since you went oflP; — 

Torchlight processions and transparencies — 

And speeches at the African; and one 

Was of the better sort of such affairs, 

I mean one speech, from Mr. Winter Davis 

Who though called Winter warmed us very much 

And used the Locos in a summary way. 

(The pun is Horace Smith's, or James's, 

Or Hook's, or Hood's — at least it is not mine; 

But it came up so pat to my steel pen 

I thought I'd hook it whUe I did not steel it)*. 

This Mr. Davis is a brick, I tell ye, 

"One in a thousand," and comes down as heavy. 

He is an orator as Brutus was. 

Though Mr. William Ritchie says his speech 

Was no great shakes, and so perhaps I'm wrong. 

John Daniel has been up to Charlottesville 

To take a challenge to one Dr. Carr. 

Paululus Powell was the challenger. 

Against this Carr he waxed exceeding wroth. 

And fully thought to run him off the track. 

But Carr, it seems, was piously inclined. 

And liked not such collisions as a duel. 

However much he might be prone to rail; 

And therefore John M. quietly brought back 

The little missive he so fiercely carried — 

But not before the Albemarle police 

Had taken him before a magistrate 

And had him held to bail. You've seen, no doubt. 

The powescondence in the Richmond Whig — 

So majora canamus paulo, let us speak 

Of greater things than Mr. Paulus Powell. 



A LETTER 95 

The country letters you must surely write, 
And I shall look for them before you come — 
Reserving them an honorable place 
In my October number, for the next 
Is more than full already, and, without 
An accident, will be delivered here 
And sent abroad about the first proximo. 
"Bachelor Smith" is sent herewith to guard 
This letter in the mail-bag, and I think 
Will prove a capital companion for it. 

Pray let me hear from you without delay. 
And with assurances of high regard 
Believe me ever Very truly yours, 

J. R. T. 
John Esten Cooke, Esq. 



'BRIGHTLY, WITH THE ELFIN TRAIN 
ATTENDED" 

Brightly, with the elfin train attended, 
Comes the happy daisy-sandalled May: 

Never walked on earth a queen so splendid, 
Nor in such magnificent array. 

Beauteous as the Florentine Aurora, 
Joevmd over misty mountain tops. 

Luminously on she moves, while Flora 

Blessings newly-blossomed round her drops. 

Gay the robe that Natiu-e, her costumer. 
In a gleeful moment, lightly cast 

On this first and fairest Mrs. Bloomer, 
As from out her tiring-room she passed. 

Now the birds, from southern tom-s arriving. 
Give their well-attended matinees; 

Feathers thus are everywhere reviving. 

While some furze the morning still displays. 

Let us hear these exquisite performers — 
Nature's Philharmonic on the hills — 

Better far than half-a-dozen Normas 
Is the store of music in their bills. 

Fashion likes not "singing for the million" — 
Yet forbear, fair reader, all remarks: 

Neither Lady Dash nor Lord Trevilian 
Moves in higher circles than the larks. 
96 



"BRIGHTLY, WITH THE ELFIN TRAIN" 97 

Each new poet with his latest fancies 
May's soft praises deftly interweaves; 

While each grove brings out her new romances 
In a multiplicity of leaves. 

Authors now most winningly invite us 
With the mental stimulus they bring, 

Hawthorne ne'er so freshly can delight us 

Nor "Holm(e)s" seem so "bonny" as in Spring. 

Tityrus, sub tegmine reclining, 

Finds in Punch a pleasant morning dram. 
And, when comes the proper hour for dining, 

Relishes a little taste of Lamb. 

Requiescat, genial Lamb, in pace I 

Rest forever quietly in peas. 
With such Attic salt, so very racy. 

As in Saxe one uniformly sees. 

Stately be thy step among the pansies 
Winsome, wondrous, ever-smiling May, 

June with garish letinue advances 
To usurp thy gentle, queenly sway. 



L'ENVOI 

[to volume XIX OF THE "SOUTHEBN LITERARY MESSENGER"] 

The Volume closes as the year departs — 
And as the showman when the play is done. 
Puts up the puppets that our praise have won, 

So we, with not the gladsomest of hearts, 

Shut up our box and bid our friends adieu 
A little while, for when the Old Year's fled 

And bravely down the highway comes the New, 
We'll open it again, by purpose led 

To please you, gentle reader, as we trust — 
And some new comers to our varied show. 

Meanwhile, right graciously accept you must 
A "Merry Christmas" from us as we go. 

With mirth and music may the happy time 

Glide with you softly as the poet's rhyme ! 



98 



THE BRAVE 

[to the HOWARD ASSOCIATION OF NEW ORLEANS] 

We call him brave who, when the trumpet's blare 
Rang o'er the field of glory and of blood. 
Went where the fight was deadliest, and stood 

Where duty placed him, with unaltered air: 

For him the golden guerdon waits — the fame 

Which blows his deeds the extending fields along; 

The poet weaves in tuneful verse his name. 
And woman sweetly utters it in song. 

No recompense like this for ye remains. 
Men of a loftier courage yet than War 

Could boast upon her drenched and crimsoned plains, 
But ye have won a garland better far 

Than fading laurel, and a fame above 

What earth can ever give. Heaven's Messengers of Love ! 



99 



AUTUMN LINES 

Gone is the golden October 

Down the swift current of time, 

Month by the poets called sober, 
Just for the sake of the rhyme. 

Tints of vermilion and yellow 
Margined the forest and stream; 

Poets then told us 'twas mellow. 
How inconsistent they seem ! 

Now, while the mountain in shadow 
Dappled and hazy appears, 

While the late corn in the meadow, 
Culprit-like, loses its ears. 

Get some choice spirits together, 
Bring out the dogs and the guns, 

Follow the birds o'er the heather, 
Where the "cold rivulet" runs. 

Look for them under the cover. 
Just as the pole-star at sea 

Always is sought by the rover. 
Near where the pointers may be. 

Yet if your field-tramping brothers 
Should not be fellows of mark, 

Leave the young partridge for others. 
Only make sure of a lark. 
100 



AUTUMN LINES 101 

Thus shall the charms of the season 
Gently throw round you their spell. 

Thus enjoy nature in reason 
If in the country you dwell. 

But if condemned as a denizen 

In a great town to reside, 
Take down a volume of Tennyson, 

Make him do service as guide. 

Borne upon poesy's pinion. 

Rise to the heights that he gains. 

Range over Fancy's dominion. 
Walk hypothetical plains. 

Soon shall the wintry December 

Darken above us the sky — 
Winds their old custom remember 

All, in a spree, to get high: 

And, as they waU through the copses, 

Dirge-like and solemn to hear. 
Nature's own grand Thanatopsis 

Sadly shall strike the ear. 

But all impressions so murky 

Instantly banish like care. 
Turn to the ham and the turkey 

Christmas shall shortly prepare. 

None than yourself can be richer. 

Seated at night by the hearth. 
With an old friend and a pitcher 

Lending a share of the mirth. 



102 AUTUMN LINES 

Then to the needy be given 
Aid from the generous boards. 

And to a bountiful Heaven 

Thanks for the wealth it affords. 



THE EXILE'S SUNSET SONG 

When from thy side, love, 
In silence and gloom, 
Half broken-hearted. 
Fate tore me away, 
All humbled in pride, love, 
I thought, in my doom. 
That Hope had departed 
Forev^er and aye! 

But Fate may not banish 
From memory's store 
That blissful communion 
Of years that are flown. 
Nor make yet to vanish 
The lustre which o'er 

Our fond thoughts of union 
So tenderly shone. 

And stiU o'er the ocean 
My fancy takes flight 
Where oft I see gleaming 
Thy figure afar; 
And I think with emotion 
That sometimes at night 
We watch the same beaming 
And tremulous star. 

The sunsets so golden 

That stream round me here 
103 



104 THE EXILE'S SUNSET SONG 

But call up thy shadow 
The landscape between; 
And when m the olden 
Dim season so dear 

It tripped o'er the meadow 
With step of a queen. 

As the light of the moon, love, 
Like snow softly falls. 

And rests on the mountain 
And silvers the sea. 
That midnight in June, love. 
My mem'ry recalls 

When up to the fountain 
I clambered with thee. 

How sweetly the river 
Reflected the ray 

Of moon through the willows 
Or sun o'er the lull; 
Does the moonbeam there quiver. 
The simset there play, 
Upon its gay billows 
As splendidly still? 

My spirit is weary — 
An exile I grieve, 

TMien morn's early voices 
A glad song proclaim, 
And the faint Miserere 
Of nature at eve 
To me but rejoices 
To murmur thy name. 



THE EXILE'S SUNSET SONG 105 

Yet Hope, reappearing, 
A vision unfolds 
Of rapture together 
In joy's happy reign. 
When love all endearing 
The full eye beholds, 

We'U walk o'er the heather 
At sunset again. 



"AH! FUTILE THE HOPE" 

Ah ! futile the hope once so sweetly expressed, 

Tom Moore ! in thy verse with a pathos so true 
That when in the grave they shoxild lay thee to rest. 

Thy faults and thy follies might slumber there, too; 
Or, if they were ever remembered, 'twere only 

That o'er them a tear might in silence be shed, 
To moisten the turf, in the valley so lonely. 

Where Clio her vigils keeps o'er the dead ! 

For long ere the daisies have tufted the spot. 

There comes a cold critic,^^ and, after his kind. 
Recalls all those follies, by others forgot, 

And plants them like nettles to grow there entwined: 
Thus, Envy, in triumph at last thou rejoicest; — 

When Death breaks the bowl at the fountain for aye. 
What once shown so brightly as gold of the choicest. 

As valueless lies as the vilest of clay. 

We crave not that wonderful sharpness of sight 

That faults microscopic to mark cannot fail. 
While virtues, like luminous orbs of the night, 

Unseen through its ken may in majesty sail: 
Still less do we wish that close logic to borrow. 

Which strives to enwrap in a shadow abhorred 
The fondest remembrance that woman in sorrow 

Can cling to — the faith and the love of her lord. 
106 



"AH! FUTILE THE HOPE" 107 

When Quarterlies long shall have mouldered, and deep 

O'er the fossils of critics time's strata shall lie, 
Moore's verse amaranthine its freshness shall keep, 

As fairly as when it first bloomed to the eye; 
And though other minstrels to rapture may waken 

With genius as cunning the strings of the lyre, 
The world that his Melodies captive have taken. 

Will never "let song so enchanting expire!" 



MY MURRAY 

At Antwerp, when I lost my way. 
And far through crooked paths did stray, 
Who taught me where my lodgings lay? 
My Murray. 

Who hinted at the best of wine. 
And told me always where to dine 
Along the "wide and wiading Rhine?" 
My Mmray. 

Who spoke of every saintly bone 
That lined the churches of Cologne, 
And Herr Farina's shop make known? 
My Miuray. 

At Baden, when the gay roulette 
Attracted all the faster set. 
Who kindly warned me not to bet? 
My Murray. 

Else had my very modest purse 
Become a "ruin" greatly worse 
Than any in Lord Byron's verse. 

My Murray. 

Who pointed out, on every wall. 
The Rafaelles, Rosas, Guidos, all 
The famous pictures, great and small? 
My Murray. 
108 



MY MURRAY 109 

So hast thou proved the trustiest book 

That ever rambling tourist took 

For Church, for Castle, and for Cook, 

My Murray. 

Munich, August, 1854. 



THE RHINE* 

Beneath these castles and in these hotels 
We walk amidst the English: in proud state 

Each high Milor beholds the Drachenfels, 
"Doing" the classic site, nor less elate 
Than smaller heroes just from Cripplegate. 

What want these wandering Britons here should know 
But poesy their travels to relate — 

A Harold's Pilgrimage their deeds to show 

And what they fancied wild and what they voted "slow." 

In their baronial trips the country round 

What checks and gaiters on the Rhine appear ! 
And Murray, in red muslin weakly bound. 

With maps provided, serves their course to steer. 

(A new edition comes out every year). 
But still their forte is sketching; they draw on 

As each old "castled crag" the boat gets near. 
And many a tower in sketch-book badly done 
Sees the discolored Rhine beneath its ruins run. 

But thou, poetic and much crowded river, 
Making thy waves a highway as they pass 

Through banks whose grapes, I trust, will last forever, 
Could man but let thee rest awhile, alas. 
Nor blacken every tree and blade of grass 

With the vile smoke of steamers — we might see 
The valley with some comfort; now the mass 

Of travel makes thy waters seem to me 

As they a super-terrene sort of Styx might be. 

*A parody of stanzas 48, 49, 50 and 59 of canto III of Byron's 
Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. 

110 



THE RHINE 111 

Adieu to thee, fair Rhine ! How long the rhymer 

Would linger by thee on his careless way. 
To quench his daily thirst in Rudeshheimer 

And sing its praises in his grateful lay ! 

And could the ceaseless viiltm-es cease to prey 
On self-exhausting pockets, it were here 

Where Bacchus, nor too sombre nor too gay. 
Fine but not strong, joUy yet not too dear. 
Pours forth his generous wine as England pours her beer ! 



A SOUVENIR OF ZURICH" 

Faie Zurich ! how well I remember the hour. 
When taking my coflfee and rolls in the Baur, 
There beamed on my vision enraptured — my eye ! 
A Lady that must have dropped down from the sky; 
Whose voice, sweeter far than the sweetest of chimes, 
(How unlike an angel !) first asked for the Times, 
Then softly petitioned for toast and green tea — 
The dear English cr^achaw — ah ! who could she be ? 

Just out of the window — the heavens were clear — 
The sunbeam was wooing the beautiful mere, 
And a shimmer crept over the surface to prove 
How fondly the water requited its love; 
Away in the distance, the Alps in the glow 
Of morning, lay shiningly crested with snow; 
But the lake how insipid, the landscape how flat. 
Compared with the object which vis-a-vis sat! 

When this charming young person would enter the room, 

It seemed like a ray breaking in through a gloom; 

Such sudden delight did her presence impart, 

'Twas like hearing some exquisite strain of Mozart; 

And I fancied the moment her figure retired. 

That the ray was extinguished, the strain had expired: 

A rainbow, a star, a fountain, a flow'r. 

She sparkled, and blossomed, and shone in the Baur ! 

I knew not, indeed, if this delicate girl 
Was daughter of baronet, viscoimt, or earl; 
Or whether, the realms of Cockaigne to command, 
A new Aphrodite she rose from the Strand; 
112 



A SOUVENIR OF ZURICH 113 

But nobility's patent, I felt, had been given 
To such a fair being directly from heaven; 
For round her unceasingly glittered a glory, a 
Light that did never belong to Victoria! 

But the pleasures of life, as the poet gives warning, 
Tho' as bright are as transient as tints of the morning; 
And so cruel fortune, the very next day. 
Made this beautiful vision get in the coupe: 
A Saxony shawl the dear vision was wrapt in, 
And by her there sat a magniiScent captain. 
And Hope, on the wings of an eagle, took flight 
As the diligence bore her away from my sight ! 

Et moi — after such an unfortunate "go," 

I found la belle Zurich exceedingly slow. 

As Christian, most likely, found Vanity Fair, 

When Faithful was carried off into the air: 

Though a light o'er the village her beauty had thrown, 

"Like the fragrance of summer when summer is gone," 

And stUl shall I cherish, whUe memory has pow'r. 

That sweet souvenir of my stay at the Baur. 



THE POSTILION OF LINZ 

What a brave looking fellow comes walking this way — 

Who is he, what is he? can any one say? 

With his coat so refulgent, his breeches so gay — 

As fine as an African prince: 
See, the boys all retire when his brightness appears, 
(As the populace do in the streets of Algiers, 
Backing out, like the stars, when the Dey interferes). 

'Tis the splendid Postilion of Linz ! 

With his pipe in his mouth, and his whip in his hand. 
And the air of a gentleman born to command 
All the horses that ever were seen in the land — 

How the leaders, beholding him, wince ! — 
He jumps to the saddle, "a good 'un to go," 
Like the gallant Postilion of Lonjumeau, 
Whom we saw at the Opera Comique, you know. 

Is this funny Postilion of Linz. 

His coat is of scarlet — his breeches of blue- 
Alas ! both a little bit faded in hue. 
And a hole in the arm where the elbow peeps through 

At time's awful ravages hints; 
But philosophy quietly laughs in its sleeve 
At trifles like this, and you'd better believe 
A philosopher scorning at trifles to grieve 

Is the careless Postilion of Linz. 

While his hat and his boots show of leather a sight — 
Like the ^'leathery postilion" that "comes from the height," 
Yet no traces of leather, as true as I write. 
Does the old-fashioned harness evince — 
114 



THE POSTILION OF LINZ 115 

'Tis a rope, d'ye see, that attaches the team 
To a (c) cord with the coach, which would certainly seem 
Like some tawdry but broken down coach in a dream, 
With its gaudy Postilion of Linz. 

Yet let us not wickedly seek to deride 

Our pleasant companion, philosopher, guide — 

Though such a Postilion I never espied 

Before I first saw him or since. 
Let us hope that his beery existence may tend. 
Like his song, to a happy and peaceable end, 
And Time all the ruts in Life's highway may mend 

For the jolly Postilion of Linz. 



LINDEN 

On Linden when the sun was low — 
The coach was very, very slow. 
The lazy horses would not "go" 

To Munich with the passengers. 

But Linden yet shall see a sight. 
The weary pilgrim to delight. 
When locomotives shall affright 
The field from its propriety. 

By coachman's trumpet loudly played 
The horses were not "fast arrayed," 
And not a single charger neighed 
To join our little company. 

But far less speed we yet shall know 
Before we see the Iser's flow. 
And slower yet the coach shall go 
To Munich with the passengers. 

The team was changed by Linden's mob. 
But scarcely had they done the job 
When furious John and fiery Bob 
Cried "go ahead" most lustUy. 

The highway lengthens. On we crawl 
To town before the night shall fall — 
Take, Munich ! take the party all 

And charge with all thy hostelry ! 
116 



LINDEN 117 

Ah ! when at last we there shall meet, 
A jolly dinner we shall eat, 
And every bottle 'neath our feet 

Shall tell of vanished Burgundy ! 



A PICTURE 

Across the narrow dusty street 

I see at early dawn, 
A little girl with glancing feet 

As agUe as the fawn. 

An hour or so and forth she goes. 
The school she brightly seeks, 

She carries in her hand a rose 
And two upon her cheeks.^" 

The sun moimts up the torrid sky — 
The bell for dinner rings — 

My little friend, with laughing eye. 
Comes gaily back and sings. 

The week wears off and Saturday, 

A welcome day, I ween. 
Gives time for girlish romp and play; 

How glad my pet is seen ! 

But Sunday — in what satins great 
Does she not then appear! 

King Solomon in all his state 
Wore no such pretty gear. 

I fling her every day a kiss. 

And one she flings to me; 
I know not truly when it is 

She prettiest may be. 
118 



A LEGEND OF BARBER-Y 

Thebe was a little dandy man that lived — no matter where— 
Who thought it vastly comme il faut to cultivate bis hair, 
And so he kept in constant pay a hair (and whisker) dresser — 
Who called himself in pompous phrase "tonsorial professor" — 
Beneath whose kindly curling-tongs our hero's ringlets twined, 
Not Absalom's so beauteous grew, nor hung so low behind; 
And soon upon his upper lip, right wondrous to behold. 
There sprouts an immense moustache with sunny hue of gold. 

Along the street this dandy man would walk at set of sun, 
And as the ladies passed him by he'd throw at every one 
Such melting looks from underneath his hyacinth ine curls 
That fixed forever was the fate of all those happy girls; 
In vain they tried to think no more of such ambrosial tresses. 
Night, with its hours of dreamy rest, but deepened their 

distresses. 
For in their visions soft and light Don Whiskerandos came, 
A halo round his shining hair and his moustache in flame ! 

But soon our little dandy man became involved in ruin 
By spending such enormous sums in real grease of Bruin. 
The famed Macassar oil he found a most expensive item. 
Alas for those Hyperion locks ! he was compelled to slight 

'em, 
Until one dark and fatal day, completely out of cash. 
He vowed to cut the ringlets off and couper the moustache; 
And having at the barber's hands sustained this cruel blow. 
That little balance yet unpaid, he bade the barber go ! 

119 



120 A LEGEND OF BARBER-Y 

But when our little dandy man arose quite late next day 
He saw — O sight to fill the soul with terror and dismav ! — 
Upon his lip moustache more fierce than ever brigand knew — 
Like young Augustus Tomlinson's, his hair more fiercely 

grew; 
'Twas not confined by art within "its proper share of space." 
Nor yet about the forehead thrown with Apollonian grace. 
But like "the fretful porcupine" quite fearful 'twas to view, 

sir, 
As with its horrid snakes appears the head of the Medusa ! 

Outspake that little dandy man: "Come hither once again, 

My trusty knight of razor strops; your work was done in 
vain. 

Bring forth your sharpest scissors now, your keenest Shef- 
field blade. 

And let your bravest handicraft be quickly here displayed." 

Then sat he down; fast flew the shears his tangled curls 
among. 

Like maize before the scythe fast fell his beard so dense and 
strong. 

The floor beneath was thickly strewn with tufts of golden 
hair. 

A gayer and a cleaner man he left the barber's chair. 

Still for our little dandy man what horrors were in store ! 
Next morn the crop upon his head was thicker than before. 
The huge moustache depended low upon his throbbing 

breast — 
He seemed like one by "frightful fiends" and demons sore 

oppressed. 
Before his mirror thus he stood, the scaredest man of any, 
As, when the marble horseman spoke, stood luckless Don 

Giovanni. 



A LEGEND OF BARBER-Y 121 

And from that hour all human skill did unavailing prove 
Thait superhuman growth of hair and whiskers to remove. 

With speed our little dandy man "went flying all abroad" — 
By steamer sailed to Liverpool, by rail to Paris rode — 
And still no remedy he found, in England or in France, 
The fruitless effort only served his sorrows to enhance. 
Day after day his health declined, he grew at heart more 

sick; 
His "matted and combined locks" not even Hobbs could 

pick. 
And, more than that, as if to make his anguish but the 

deeper. 
That beard so indestructible defied McCormick's Reaper. 

At length our little dandy man, when every means had 

failed — 
For at the worst experiments his spirit never quailed — 
Besought a learned African of widest fame, who said 
The only way to cure the ill was — to cut off the head; 
And so our hero built himself a private guillotine. 
And very soon, beneath its axe, beheaded he was seen. 
And now the locks, moustache and beard, translated to the 

sky. 
Are hung, like Berenice's hair, among the stars on high ! 



IN FORMA PAUPERIS 

I WALKED out of Paris at evening — 

While the sun's declining rays 
Gilded the tops of the crosses 

Of beautiful Pere Lachaise. 

And as I passed through the portal 

'Mid the idle Sunday throng, 
A little procession of mourners 

Bore a rude coffin along. 

They seemed very humble people. 

And no one tm-ned aside 
To look on such homely sorrow, 

Or ask who it was had died. 

I followed the bier to the corner. 

Where just beneath the sod 
In a trench — not a grave — they would bury 

This lowly child of God. 

When they came to lower the coffin, 

A priez pour elle was said — 
And they sprinkled the holy water 

Over the dust of the dead. 

But a holier rain descended 

From the depths of a bursting heart — 
The tears of the little orphan 

Who in agony stood apart. 
122 



IN FORMA PAUPERIS 123 

Poor girl ! We can ofifer no solace 

To soothe the anguish you feel — 
But strength from on high will be given 

As here you shall oftentimes kneel. 

No shrine of the sculptured marble 

Shall rise aboye the spot, 
No flattering false inscription 

Shall tell what thy mother was not. 

But here the lilies and pansies 

From the dewy earth shall spring — 

Here the blossoming Rose of Sharon 
Its fragrance around shall fling. 

And the eye of our Heavenly Father 
Shall watch o'er the grave of Ma Mere, 

Since it looks on the peer and the peasant 
With ever an equal care. 

Such was the train of my musings — 

In the twilight's purpling haze — 
As I walked back to Paris that evening 

From beautiful Pere Lachaise. 



PATRIOTISM 21 

You ask a Poem — it must be eonfest 

That this is no extravagant request, 

In our poetic and trochaic time 

When "mobs of gentlemen" indulge in rhyme — 

And every critic writing to review 

His neighbor's verses is a poet too — 

Has climbed himself the steep Lj'^corean mount. 

And done an epic on his own account. 

A Poem! why it has indeed been made, 

Of latter days, the merest thing of trade. 

Yet may we marvel at the easy air 

With which the customers their wants declare — 

Write by the post a simple business note 

And order poems as they would a coat — 

Say to the Schneider of the stately song 

"On Thursday fortnight send the thing along." 

And, they might add, be sure that it display 

The very latest fashion of the day. 

For there are reigning modes in verse to choose — 

Each has its hour and an old-fashioned muse 

Like Goldsmith's, seeking simply to impart 

The dear pathetic lessons of the heart, 

Would be regarded, in the present rage 

For "stunning" novelties, behind the age. 

In poetry, as well as dress, we seek 

For something, as the French would say, flus chic. 

Receive not, gentle hearer, with a yawn 
This long sartorian simile I've drawn, 
There's much resemblance, if you did but know it, 
124 



PATRIOTISM 125 

Between the crafts of tailor and of poet — 

Both cut and patch, both do their work by measure. 

And both, alas ! both cabbage at their pleasure ! 

But now the parallel at last to drop 

And once for all, indeed, to "sink the shop," 

Just let me ask for this afiPair of mine 

To judge it harshly you will not inclme — 

If you should find it somewhat badly wrought. 

And rather threadbare as respects the thought. 

The style of fustian, and the scanty wit 

Beyond all question not a handsome fit — 

If of the pims you cannot see the force 

Nor follow up the threads of the discourse — 

In short, if when you've read the poem through. 

You cannot say "Rem tetigit acu," 

Pray be indulgent: — neither snips nor bards 

Win aU at once their coveted rewards, 

Stultz's first garment did not gain renown. 

Nor Tennyson's first song the laureate's crown: — 

Call it a failure freely, if you will. 

But have compassion for the poet still. 

And this small favor Pity's self demands — 

Don't throw the poem back upon his hands ! 

I come, in sooth, with no desire to claim 
Poetic honors or the poet's name. 
But with affection, warm and true, for all 
Who join in this, your yearly festival. 
My little wreath of wintry flowers I bring; 
You'U not reject the humble offering 
Which makes no effort at distinguished meed 
And scarce a poem can be called, indeed. 
Unless, with Jourdain's master, we suppose 
That all is poetry which is not prose.^^ 



126 PATRIOTISM 

My theme is Patriotism — lofty theme ! 

Long held by moralists in high esteem, 

And much discussed by those who writ and spoke 

In former ages — vide Bolingbroke — 

But voted now an antiquated thing 

By such as haply either speak or sing. 

Perhaps in kindness you may ask me why 

I take a topic so extremely dry, 

'Tis not that I can hope to say a word 

That's new about it — I'm not so absurd: 

Or make the glorious light of genius shine 

Through every page and brighten every line. 

And, subtler alchemy than that of old ! 

Transmute my leaden fancies into gold. 

As soft October sunsets, slanting o'er 

The length'ning levels of a barren moor. 

Convert the poorest ferns and meanest brooms 

Into the semblance of a prince's plumes; 

But that our "primal duties," though aloft 

They "shine like stars," are yet forgotten oft. 

Because on lower things we fix the eye 

And wiU not look into the spangled sky. 

For this, I would some homely truths recite. 

Not the less excellent that they are trite. 

For this repeat some humdrum ancient saws 

Touching "the beauty of the good old cause." 

And what is Patriotism? — shall we go 

To Samuel Johnson, first of aU, to know; 

Since now, in Public Virtue's sad decay? 

Its true significance has passed away. 

'Tis "love of country," you will answer pat. 

Admitted, sir, but tell me, what is that? 

Time was, 'tis long since, when to love the earth 



PATRIOTISM 127 

With generous loyalty, which gave one birth, 

Involved a wide affinity of love 

For all that rose the natal soil above: 

Not for the dear old mansion-house alone. 

Where, like a dream, his boyish days had flown. 

The breezy hills, the tall ancestral trees. 

The drowsy garden mm-murous with the bees. 

Nor yet the path where oft he followed after 

The rippling music of his sweetheart's laughter: 

But for the school where erst he felt the rod — 

The church where he was taught to worship God: 

Then did he treat with a becoming awe 

Religion's temples and the shrines of law — 

An antique honour make his constant guide, 

And ever cherish with an honest pride 

The language, rich in eloquence and song. 

Which once to magic Shakespeare did belong, 

Learned in perfection only as it trips 

In airiest movement from a mother's lips. 

Then widening out his sympathies would reach 

To all who used that noble form of speech, 

And more and more the circle still expand 

Beyond the limits of his native land. 

Till Patriotism in its largest sense. 

Embraced mankind in its benevolence. 

How well we prospered in the simple ways 

Of those long-vanished, scarce-remembered days. 

Then legislators little understood 

The tricks of craft, and sought the public good. 

Unread in Machiavel, they merely aimed 

At truth and justice in the laws they framed: 

Each recognized his duties to the State 

And strove, as best he might, to make her great, 

And even the humblest with that glow was fired 



128 PATRIOTISM 

Which Burns "in glory and in joy" inspired. 

Who only wished "some usefu' plan" to make 

Not for his own, but for old Scotia's sake. 

Ah happy age, ah long exploded creed ! 

What novel ethics to thy sway succeed ! 

How changed the scene ia legislative halls 

Where through the livelong day hoarse folly bawls. 

And mad ambition or the love of pelf 

Bids every member labour for himself. 

Our Solons now too often, it would seem, 

Drink deep, but not of the Pierian stream. 

And nightly gather in well-ordered ranks 

To study Finance in unchartered banks. 

Place and Preferment still make slaves of some 

Who war with Slavery, while others come 

From plotting treason round a Webster's grave 

To break the compact they are sworn to save: 

Discord in Congress rules and "wild uproar" 

Throughout the session daUy claims the floor, 

So great the strife that, striking to relate. 

Pacific railways lead to fierce debate. 

While hungry cormorants flocking from the hills 

Deplete the Treasury with their Private Bills: 

And when some luckier plunderer than the rest 

Pilfers his millions from the public chest 

For some gigantic scheme of wholesale fraud 

There are not wanting hundreds to applaud; — 

The service calls for silver service fine — 

"Honors are easy" in the silver line — 

And each new Judas to the state is paid 

His thirty pieces for some trust betrayed. 

From public shall we turn to private life.'' 
Alas ! what social maladies are rife. 



PATRIOTISM 129 

Where Fashion, decked m costliest Brussels laces. 

Ignores our homebred modes and "native graces," 

And, most unpatriotic jade ! impairs 

Oiir love of country with her "foreign airs:" 

Look to the circles of our largest city 

Aping the swells of Europe, more's the pity. 

And showing in their dinners, routs and mobs, 

A vulgar aristocracy of snobs — 

In vain our simple fathers swept away 

All vestige of the ancient feudal sway. 

In vain they flouted all the useless knowledge 

That England teaches in the Herald's College, 

When each new humbug, swelling with pretence. 

But sadly destitute of common sense. 

Grown rich in selling buttons, pills or flannel. 

Sports flaring red upon his coach's panel 

A fine escutcheon stolen out of Burke, 

O stars and garters! this is awful work: 

Thus they obtain their coats-of-arms; the dance 

And cooks and sauces they procure from France, 

And, worse than all, as candor must declare. 

Import their morals with their bills of fare — 

So character is served, the truth to tell. 

In every style except au naturel. 

And so "our best society" assumes 

This shape — a filet garnished with mushrooms. 

See next how Fashion dares to set aside 

Our language — ^source of patriotic pride. 

And makes the good old mother tongue appear 

Like English oak o'erlaid with French veneer. 

Our pensive maidens rarely now employ 

A Saxon term for sorrow or for joy: 

The dear one little versed in Mr. Trench, 



130 PATRIOTISM 

Translates her tender feelings into French; 

She's enchanUe, if told some pleasant news. 

And desolie, if troubled with the blues. 

The heavenly smile that lights her beaming face 

A beau sourire becomes in Fashion's phrase, 

And Mariana in the grange would say 

Not "I'm aweary," but "I'm ennuyie." 

Yet the dear creature who on earth can blame 

When tenderly she murmurs — "Que je faime?" 

That soft confession on the poet's ire 

Falls like wet blankets on a raging fire. 

And, as Belinda's face, with beauties set, 

Belinda's errors caused you to forget. 

Atones in whatsoever language given 

For every female foible under heaven. 

Still honour be to woman ! She has shown 

The loftiest patriotism earth has known — 

Not on the hustings claiming equal rights 

With sterner man, ah hatefullest of sights ! 

But when some noble pm-pose fires the heart 

Or bids the sympathetic feelings start; 

When War holds carnival, 'mid heaps of slain. 

With Death on Glory's drenched and crimsoned plain. 

Or Pestilence in darkness walks abroad 

And renders desolate each doomed abode. 

See with what joy her holy presence fills 

A Norfolk's streets or Balaklava's hills ! 

Oh; if no strain of minstrel can avail 

To hymn the praise of Florence Nightingale, 

My rugged verse how miserably weak 

That nobler heroine's renown to speak. 

Who with the Fever waged th' unequal strife 

And bore, in danger's paths, a charmed life ! 



PATRIOTISM 131 

A brighter page her record shall display, 
And every tear that she has wiped away 
Shall crystallize into a brilliant gem 
To glitter in her heavenly diadem ! ^ 

Yes, honom' be to woman ! Hers the praise. 
When strife and tumult loud their voices raise. 
That piously she turns her moistened eye 
To where our greatest chieftain's ashes lie 
Beneath Mount Vernon's ever sacred sward, 
And seeks from insult and decay to guard 
The holiest spot the sun e'er shone upon — 
The long-neglected grave of Washington ! 

This is True Patriotism — this the spirit 

Which all earth's real Patriotic inherit: 

And so the laborer whose humble toil 

Enriches day by day his native soil — 

The merchant prince, whose vision still extends 

Beyond his semi-annual dividends — 

The poet seeking fitly to rehearse 

His country's honour, and whose lofty verse 

Undying lustre on that country sheds, 

And classic makes the ground whereon he treads, — 

The statesman gaziag yet with doubts and fears 

Up the dim vista of the coming years-r 

The man of science looking out afar 

Into the welkin for an unknown star — 

These are our patriots — and no work they wrought 

Has ever yet been perfected for naught: 

And if some name shall flash with light sublime 

Across the awful gulf of futm-e time, 

'TwUl be no politician's — feeble ray ! 



132 PATRIOTISM 

Quenched always with his own brief, noisy day. 

But that of Maury whose bright, equal fame 

Burns in Orion's belt with steady flame. 

And everywhere resoimds in Ocean's roar 

From "Tampa's desert strand" to Iceland's stormy shore! 

What though the humbler patriot's name obscure 

No fragrant immortality secure? 

He lives A Man, and, when he sinks to sleep, 

Freedom's fair Goddess shall forever keep 

A watch and ward around his lonely tomb 

Where violets with recurring Aprils bloom ! 

For there's a Goddess whose majestic form 

StUl towers above the wreck of every storm, 

Columbia's genius ! let us bend the knee, 

(Not Freedom's self but Freedom's daughter she) ^^ 

Whom to adore is not idolatry. 

With what a dignity she moves along 

Among the nations, fairest of the throng. 

Not Hera, with the large and queenly eyes. 

So walked the golden pavements of the skies. 

Nor silver-ankled Thetis e'er displayed 

The nameless beauty of our western maid. 

But oh ! how more than doubly dear she seems 

Enthroned and sceptred, in the poet's dreams, 

Regina Pacis, Empress now of Peace, 

Whose realm shall widen as the years increase. 

Her lips o'erflowing with immortal love 

And touched with light descending from above, 

While round her every Muse and every Grace 

Makes gay and luminous the courtly place: 

Or as in reverie alone she strays 

Adown the Dryads' pleasant moonlit ways. 



PATRIOTISM 133 

To twine the dewy field flow'rs, fresh and wild, 
Into a garland for Urania's child ! 

Not so when throbs the war drum thro' the land. 

And foreign foes set foot upon the strand. 

She leaves the myrtle shade and flowery dell 

And flies the proud invader to repel — 

One holy vigil first beneath the light 

Of friendly stars she keeps throughout the night, 

Then strips the laurel from her auburn hair 

And firmly sets the gleaming helmet there ! 

Doffs the white tunic and the purple vest 

To bind the corslet on her beauteous breast: 

The distaff now is flung aside, and mute 

Hangs the neglected, once rejoiceful lute — 

Or if she touches it, 'tis but to fling 

The notes of battle from the trembling string. 

O how magnificently she appears. 

Thus casting from her aU a woman's fears. 

Resistless valoiu- in her fiery glance. 

Her soft white fingers closing round the lance. 

And scarlet cheek, thin lip and lustrous eye 

All eloquently speaking Liberty ! 

Were this Divinity, so passing fair. 

No mere ideal creature of the air. 

Did she but live in fleshly guise indeed. 

And could she go, the country's cause to plead. 

Within yon capitol, what noble rage 

Would all her glorious faculties engage. 

As she should teU her more than mortal griefs 

In shame before the country's gathered chiefs; 

With what grand sorrow would she there lament 

Divided counsels, angry discontent. 



134 PATRIOTISM 

And what majestic energy reveal 

As thus she spoke in passionate appeal — 

"0 by the mighty shades that wander still 

Where Glory consecrated Bunker Hill, 

By those who sleep 'neath Buena Vista's slopes, 

By the past's greatness and the future's hopes — 

By every honoured, unforgotten name. 

Linked with your dearest Capitolian fame — 

By the proud memories and traditions all 

That live forever in the classic hall 

Where priceless pearls fell fast from Pinkney's tongue 

And wit's bright diamonds Randolph round him flung; 

Where listening Senates owned the magic sway 

And thrilled to hear the clarion voice of Clay; 

WTiere Webster, through all seasons, grandly strove 

'Gainst Fraud and Faction with the might of Jove; 

And Reason gave you her divinest boon 

In the pure logic of the great Calhoun; — 

By this august Triumvirate of mind. 

By all the lessons they have left behind. 

By your loved hearthstones and your altar fires 

And by the sacred ashes of your sires. 

Your angry strifes and fierce dissensions cease. 

And bless the country with domestic peace; 

Guard Well the Union — Freedom's last defence 

And only hope of Freedom's permanence — 

Maintain the Constitution — let it stand 

And shine the Pallas of this Western Land. 

So shall Columbia act her destined part 

As patroness of Learning, Labor, Art, 

So shall she usher in the Golden Age 

When War no more shall stain th' historic page, 

When down the glacis childish feet shall stray 



PATRIOTISM 135 

And little urchins on the bastions play, 

When ivy o'er each battlement shall run 

And cobwebs line the chamber of the gun,^^ 

While Love's warm beams shall gild the placid isles 

And the blue seas forever sleep in smiles!" 

Thus might the Goddess speak — and it were well 
If upon willing ears such counsel fell, 
Then should the prophecy that Berkeley cast 
Be yet fulfilled, and every danger past, 
Time's noblest offspring truly be its last ! 

Whoe'er has stood upon the Rigi's height 
And watched the sunset fading into night, 
WhUe every moment some new star was born 
From the bald Eigar to the Wetterhorn, 
Has seen as steadUy the airy tide 
Of darkness deepened up the mountain side 
The glowing summits, slowly, one by one. 
Lose the soft crimson splendour of the sun, 
(Like altar lights in some cathedral dim 
Extinguished singly with the dying hymn) 
Till the last flush would lovingly repose 
Upon the Jungfrau's purple waste of snows; 
Thus, O my country ! when primeval gloom 
Shall over earth its ancient reign resume. 
When Night Eternal shall its march begin 
O'er the round world and all that is therein. 
As dark Oblivion's rising waves absorb 
All human trophies, thus shall Glory's orb 
Thy lone sublimity the latest see 
And pour its parting radiance on thee ! 



VIRGINIA 26 

Hail ! blue-eyed Sister of the Sacred Well, 

Whose smile illumines every bosky dell, 

And on each storied lake or landscape streams 

Like moonlight thro' the ivory gate of dreams, — 

A fond admirer here invokes your aid, 

Altho' a poet neither "born" nor "made," 

He wants, what worthier bards have wanted too, 

A fine exordium — and he tiu-ns to you ! 

If his unlicensed brow no wreathes of bays. 

In token of the poet's rank, displays — 

If his prosaic shoulders do not bear 

The singing-robe your favorites always wear — 

Yet let him in your radiant realm remain 

A little season and inspire his strain; 

Then should he, haply, prove unworthy still. 

Some modest post, Euterpe, let him fill; 

He asks not fame — contented to revise 

Apollo's proof-sheets, and forego the prize. 

Meantime, most gracious and respected Muse, 
What theme this morning shall your vot'ry choose? 
I catch a gush of melody, and clear 
This tuneful answer breaks upon the ear — 
"Set restless Fancy free, and where her wing 
Conducts the eye, of that bright region sing!" 
'Tis done; unloosed the jeses, Fancy sails 
Buoyant aloft upon the friendly gales. 
Awhile she moves in arrowy flight along 
The sunny ether of the land of Song, 
186 



VIRGINIA 137 

Ranges from coast to crag nor leaves unseen 
The purple meadows that repose between, 
Then fondly bends, with poising wing, above 
The dear Virginia of our hopes and love; 
As the swift eagle, circling proudly o'er 
Our boundless continent from shore to shore, 
Sees rock and river, prairie, waste and wood, 
The shining city and the solitude. 
The snowy sail by Huron's breezes fanned. 
And the light ripple on the bayou's strand. 
And stoops at last to fold his sombre pinion 
On some blue mountain of the Old Dominion ! 

Imperial land ! could ever song of mine 

With fairer glories make thy borders shine — 

Could my rude minstrelsy with charm invest 

Each spot in beauty or in grandeur drest — 

And to thy Oread-haunted valleys give 

A grace, united with their own to live — 

How should thy rivers to the ocean glide. 

Like Arno's stream or Teviot's "silver tide," 

Reflecting each upon its mirror'd face 

The light which genius lends its dwelling place; 

How should Boccaccio's mellow atmosphere 

Hang round each hill and kiss each dimpled mere, 

How should thy ramparts echo with the blast 

Of lordly music flowing out the past; 

From the cool beach where, white with rage and frantic. 

Dash the wild billows of the chafed Atlantic, 

Along the Ridge, whose azure peaks on high 

Toss their soft summits 'gainst an amber sky. 

To where Ohio sends, through darkling woods, 

Its tribute to the mighty Sire of Floods; 

TUl the whole space thy distant lines surround. 



138 VIRGINIA 

Our goodly heritage, were classic ground, 
And all thy pleasant places, noble State, 
Thenceforth forever should be consecrate ! 

Virginia ! thou hast had in plenteous store 

The gifts men chiefly honour and adore; 

Thy story burns with Valour's dazzling blaze 

Or calmly glows with Wisdom's milder rays. 

While Eloquence, that melts the coldest hearts. 

To the bright record all its fire imparts: 

The Warrior, resting on his stainless sword. 

The Orator, whose lips persuasion poured, 

The Statesman, he who wrought from chaos warm 

The elements of empire into form. 

The jurist, who has "shaped the State's decrees," 

All, like the figures on a marble frieze, 

Stand grandly forth thy greatness to proclaim 

Upon the tablets of thy ancient fame. 

One stately image yet is wanting there, 

The Bard with fillets twined around his hair. 

No favored son, created for all time, 

For thee has ever "buUt the lofty rhyme," 

And joined the radiant, rose-encircled throng. 

Within the Temple dedicate to Song: 

One gifted child thou hadst, who reached in vain, 

The vast propylon of the gleaming fane, 

'Twas his to see the columns, pure and white. 

Of marble and of ranged chrysolite — 

The lines of jasper through the golden gates — 

Alas ! no more was suffered by the Fates. 

Like Baldur, fairest of the sons of morning. 

The halls of Odin lustrously adornmg. 

He early caught the pale blue, fearful glance 

Of shadowy Hela's awful countenance. 



VIRGINIA 139 

Lamented Cooke ! if all that love could lend 
To the chaste scholar and the faitixful friend. 
If all the spoiler forced us to resign 
In the calm virtues of a life like thine. 
Could bid him turn his fatal dart aside 
From our young Lycidas, thou hadst not died: 
Peace to the Poet's shade ! His ashes rest 
Near the sweet spot he loved on earth the best. 
The modest daisies from the surface peeping, 
As from the sod where Florence Vane lies sleeping. 
While his own river murmurs, as it flows. 
Perpetual requiem o'er his soft repose. 

And stUl another child Virginia nursed. 

Who had her glories loftily rehearsed. 

But that his genius sought "a wild, weird, clime," 

Beyond the bounds of either space or time. 

From whose dim circuit, with unearthly swell, 

A burst of lyric rapture often fell. 

Which swept at last into a strain as dreary 

As a lost spirit's plaintive Miserere; 

Unhappy Poe, what destiny adverse 

StUl hung around thee both to bless and curse ! 

The Fairies' gifts, who on thy birth attended, 

Seemed all with bitter maledictions blended; 

The golden crown that on thy brow was seen. 

Like that Medea sent to Jason's queen. 

In cruel splendor shone but to consume, 

And decked its victim proudly for the tomb. 

Yet shall the Poet make in coming time 
His bright avatar in our sunny clime; 
And where shall inspiration urge the soul 
Thro' dithyrambic harmonies to roll 



140 VIRGINIA 

More fittingly than in this calm retreat 
Of studious Science — ^Learning's earliest seat? 
Where does Romance more lavishly diffuse 
Upon our soil its ever brilliant hues 
Than here, where Patriotism's sacred glow 
Kindled the wrath that laid the tyrant low? 
I walk these ancient haxmts with reverent tread. 
And seem to gaze upon the mighty dead: 
Imagination calls a noble train 
From gloom and darkness back to life again. 
Whose air majestic lends a statelier grace, 
A soft enchantment to the honoured place. 
So have I strolled at twilight's rosy hour 
Along the quiet street, where Merton's tower 
Lifts its rich tracery thro' the nodding trees 
That rise o'er Oxford's halls of lettered ease. 
And felt the 'presence of the tranquil scene. 
Till forms long-buried flitted o'er the green; 
There graceful Raleigh moved, immortal name ! 
And Addison from cloistered musings came; 
There stalked portentous Johnson's burly shade, 
And pensive Collins down the vista strayed; 
And as they vanished into common air. 
Their clustering memories, ever fresh and fair. 
Like ivy round each turret seemed to twine 
And every chapter-house became a shrine ! 

'Tis thus that Art is long, tho' Time is fleeting — 
The wise old maxim that we keep repeating — 
And Wisdom, with endurance not of earth. 
Outlives for aye the age that gave it birth; 
So shall our Academus planted here 
Survive, in its results, from year to year. 
Though ruin settles on its antique walls 



VIRGINIA 141 

And from our lonely courts the bittern calls; 
So shall the writer, who with skill portrays 
Virginia's history in coming daj^s, 
Mark how it enters in the general plan 
And with delighted eye its progress scan, 
A thread of gold still running brightly through 
The wondrous tapestry from Old to New. 

Thus tracing here the honors interwove 

Of State and College, Capitol and Grove, 

I leave unsung those grand, heroic men 

Who walked the heights, so dizzy to our ken, 

Where first our starry banner was unfurled. 

And seem yet visible to half the world — 

And follows Memory, as she fondly turns 

To yet more precious if less stately urns. 

But twice the roses of the Spring have blown, 

Since rambling far in other lands, alone, 

I sought the hillock where the cypress bends 

O'er Dew, lamented still by "troops of friends," 

The sage, whose active and well-ordered mind 

Books had enriched and social life refined. 

And pondering there on wisdom, learning, worth. 

Buried with him beneath that foreign earth, 

I thought of Tucker's high and varied powers. 

His fame, of all indeed that made him ours; 

The sweet benignity, the careless grace. 

With earnest thought commingled in his face: — 

You watched his genius — saw its steady shine. 

Its full meridian, its undimmed decline; 

How bright the noonday, how serene and clear 

The solemn evening of that calm career, 

And mark how pure a lustre lingers yet 

Where from our loving gaze that full-orbed genius set ! 



142 VIRGINIA 

Where shall the poet find, tho' wandering long 

A spot so fragrant of unuttered song 

As this old city, whose colonial glory 

Fades into Jamestown's legendary story? 

One mouldering tower, o'ergrown with ivy, shows 

Where first Virginia's capital arose. 

And to the tourist's vision far withdrawn 

Stands like a sentry at the gates of dawn. 

The chxu-ch has perished — faint the lines and dim 

Of those whose voices raised the choral hymn. 

Go read the record on the mossy stone, 

'Tis brief and sad — oblivion claims its own: 

Yet Fancy, musing by the placid wave, 

With gentle Wirt above some nameless grave. 

May animate the sleeping dust once more. 

And all the past in vivid tints restore. 

Nor should the picture lack for livelier strokes, 

(As this my poem sadly wants its jokes,) 

When came the epic muse to later times: 

(I trust the change will brighten up my rhymes.) 

Oh ! those were jolly, good old days, in sooth, 

Consule Planco — in the Raleigh's youth, 

When to the town at Christmas would repair 

The gallant lords and ladies debonair; 

When balls and races, dinners, routs, the play. 

In quick succession make the season gay; 

When ennui was unknown — delightful age ! 

French modes and phrases were not then the rage; 

When courtly lovers and their chosen flames 

In sweet simplicity took pastoral names; 

Thus Damon fair Celinda's graces set 

To smoothest verses in the old Gazette, 

And Strephon, both to please and to adorn her. 

Courted his Chloe in the "Poet's Corner," 



\ 



VIRGINIA 143 

While all — Celinda, Damon, Strephon, Chloe — 
O manly forms, O bosoms soft and snowy ! — 
Danced stiff old minuets throughout the night. 
Visions of satin, spare my aching sight! 
With grandest music floating round the whole — 
Ye powdered bigwigs, crowd not on my soul ! 

Fiction at last has turned its gaze, we know. 

Upon those golden days of long ago; 

And as, obedient to the prompter's call. 

Time's misty curtain rises over all. 

Before us now the quaint comedians pass — - 

And see ! the modern footlights blaze with gas. 

In robes resplendent, freshened every hue. 

The faded scarlet and the watery blue. 

The beaux and belles of long forgotten years 

Have "sly flirtations" 'neath the chandeliers; 

Yet in the brilliant crowd the form I see 

With greatest pleasure is the F. F. V. — 

Aristocratic type of lofty sires. 

Of whom 'tis said "Virgmia never tires," 

When this great actor comes upon the stage, 

His graceful movements aU my thoughts engage. 

As in the Bowery pit, Moses strains his eye 

When Billy Kirby rushes on to die ! 

Time changes all. When in the morning gray 
The smoke from Yorktown slowly rolled away. 
And there revealed our flag flung proudly out 
O'er slippery mound and perilous redoubt. 
Another age Virginia ushered in — 
End pompous Court and Commonwealth begin ! 
Colonial grandeur soon aside was laid 
With sword and periwig and gold brocade. 
And of the prim old courtiers soon the last 



144 VIRGINIA 

Walked grandly down into the dusky past. 

And now behold Virginia's active life 

Of varied labour and industrial strife — 

Where Spotswood followed on the Indian trail. 

They're busy putting down the heavy rail; 

And iron coursers thunder o'er the land 

Where pressed the "golden horse-shoe" in the sand; 

The constant roar of ponderous machines 

Drowns the blithe music of remote ravines; 

In our Parnassus there's a recent hole 

In which the workmen dig for cannel coal; 

And Cato, Liberty's devout admirer, 

Who wrote those essays in the old Enquirer, 

For such pursuits has no more time to spare, 

But fattens Durhams for the Annual Fair ! 

What though they say Virginia lags behind 

Her rival sisters in the march of mind; 

What though so frequently 'tis ours to hear 

The pointless jest, the miserable sneer. 

From men, whose freedom 'twas her joy to save, 

Or States, whose every inch of soU she gave? 

If some sweet lethargy has sealed her lips 

And quenched her vision in a brief eclipse; 

And on the pedestal of former fame — 

Whose proud inscription is her simple name — 

She long has stood in statuesque repose. 

Pure as if hewn from everlasting snows^ 

'Tis as Hermione, the peerless Queen, 

The glorious image, stood in Shakespeare's scene; 

Soon shall the form descend, no more be stone, 

With flowing drapery and flashing zone. 

Walk forth in majesty, Miaerva-like, 

And all who look on her with marvel strike ! 



TO PAUL H. HAYNE 

[est recognition of a volume of his sonnets] 

Sweet sonnetteer of Southern hills and streams, 
Petrarca of the bright Palmetto shore, 
My thanks ! that from thy richly- varied store 

Of glorious fancies and divinest dreams 

A sunshine, vs^arm and golden, broadly beams 
Upon our genial land in brilliance splendid ! 
Thine is the poet's glance; thou art attended 

By a right queenly Muse, whose sandal gleams 

In every walk beneath primeval woods. 

Or by the sea-side's level solitudes. 
Wherever Nature wakens thee to love. 

Still heed thy Muse, interpret her replies 

Through all the converse whispered as ye rove. 

And men shall write thee with the great and wise. 



145 



THE JAMESTOWN CELEBRATION, 1857 27 

MoKN broke over Jamestown Island, 
Slowly purpling all the landscape. 
Shelving beach and crumbling turret. 

Till at last the May-day sun 
Streamed across the spreading wheat-fields 
In a flood of golden splendor; 
And upon the slumberous silence 

Pealed the heavy signal gun. 

Five times fifty years had glided 
Over earthly states and kingdoms 
Since the keels of Smith and Gosnold 

There had grated on the sand; 
When the sons of Old Virginia 
Came with pomp and martial music 
To commemorate the virtues 

Of that little pilgrim band. 

Out upon the tawny river — 

For the tide that day had borrowed, 

As in token of the Red man. 

Just the Indian's copper hue — 
Lay a fleet of yachts and steamers. 
Gay with flags from staff and topmast — 
Stars and stripes, and proud Sic Semper 

Shining on a field of blue. 
146 



THE JAMESTOWN CELEBRATION, 1857 147 

Soon the passengers were landed. 

And into the silent graveyard 

Passed the throng to muse and ponder 

On the graves amid its gloom; 
WhUe the daily press reporter 
Copied all the pompous Latin 
Of the dim and quaint inscriptions 

Carved upon each shattered tomb. 

Some in sacrilegious fury 
Hammered on the hallowed marble 
To obtain a precious relic 

Of the spot whereon they sat: 
Others, for a fond memento. 
Took a brick from oflf the tower; 
But the brick, in many an instance. 

Got into the pilgrim's hat! 

Then the throng moved slowly onward 

To the place of celebration. 

Two miles distant from the landing — 

Oh, that long and dusty tramp ! 
Who did not, with Mariana, 
Cry, oh dear, "I am a-weary!" 
Ere he saw far-off the whitely 

Gleaming canvass of the camp? 

There the gallant Richmond soldiers. 
Marshalled under Colonel Cary, 
Marched about to lively music 

Played on silver instruments; 
All around was their encampment, 
Pitched in military order. 
And their war-like satisfaction 

Seemed to all to be in tents [intense]. 



148 THE JAMESTOWN CELEBRATION, 1857 

Soon, as grew the day more fervid, 
On there came a small procession. 
Arm in arm, some five and twenty 

Gentlemen in suits of black; 
And among them one whose boyhood 
Had been spent beneath Mount Vernon's 
Sacred roof, a reverend seignior,^* 

Walking down the dusty track. 

All behind them poured the thousands 
Covered with the white 'piepoudre. 
Looking very vexed and heated — 

Men and maidens, youth and years; 
And with rare "sonorous metal 
Blowing martial sounds" like fury, 
Strong in numbers, fuss and feathers, 

Came the Portsmouth Volunteers ! 

Presently drove up a carriage 

Filled with grace and wit and beauty — 

Ladies fair, and tall civilian. 

This the orator, they said; 
And indeed 'twas Mr. Tyler, 
Straight and dignified and stately. 
With the speech in his portfolio. 

And his hat upon his head. 

Then they gathered round the platform 
All the soldiers and the people 
While the band played HaU Columbia 

With a patriotic din; 
And, the moment this was ended, 
'Twas announced to all that straightway. 
With a solemn invocation. 

The proceedings would begin. 



THE JAMESTOWN CELEBRATION, 1857 149 

Then arose from earth to heaven 
Accents of shicere thanksgiving 
And an humble plea for mercy 

To the King of Kings on high — 
He who watched above our fathers 
With a tendea" loving kindness 
In those fearful forest vigils 

Which they kept in days gone hy. 

Now a hum of expectation 

Ran throughout the large assembly. 

As before them Mr. Tyler 

Forward stepped upon the stage; 
And the daily press reporters 
Spread their sheets of yellow paper 
And caught up their trusty pencils 

In a stenographic rage. 

'Twas a very long oration, read — 
Why did he not declaim it.^* — 
And, the noontide being sultry, 

Its effect was somewhat tame,^' 
But at times the voice, unshaken. 
Rising with the theme majestic. 
Reached the melody and measure 

Of his senatorial fame; 

And when all the fire and feeling 

Of his nature energetic 

In a more commanding diction 

Found at last a fittuig vent 
Some who heard him were reminded 
Of the brilliant early triumphs. 
At the bar and on the hustings, 

Of the "old man eloquent." 



150 THE JAMESTOWN CELEBRATION, 1857 

When the orator concluded, 
There was very loud applauding 
And another burst of bugles 

From the soul-inspiring band: 
Then with hair in wild disorder 
And his eyes ('neath goid-rimmed glasses) 
In poetic frenzy rolling. 

Our young poet took the stand. 

As the tuneful Chiabolos 
Sang of war and gentle woman 
To the dusky braves around him 

With the music of the reed — 
As the pleasant minnesinger 
Sang of love and knightly daring 
In the long and pensive twilight 

Of the Nibelungen Lied — 

So our gifted Jamestown minstrel 
Sang of Smith the stalwart Captain, 
Sang the strange and sad adventures 

Of the beauteous Indian bride, 
Mingling thus the feudal story 
With our own romantic legends 
In the song of Pocahontas 

Early lost and sanctified: 

Sang our much loved Old Dominion, 
Sang its past and faded glory. 
And in bard-like strain prophetic 

Cast its shining horoscope, 
Till the listening crowd enraptured 
Burst into a general plaudit, 



THE JAMESTOWN CELEBRATION, 1857 151 

And declared our Hampton poet 
Had not proved a barren hope* 

There the speaking programme ended. 
But the people, much excited. 
With at least five hundred voices. 

Frantically called for "Wise!" 
And the governor came forward 
'Mid the furious acclamations, 
Thunder seated on his forehead. 

Lightning gleaming from his eyes. 

'Twas a little speech he made us. 
But the words were fitly spoken. 
Golden apples, silver pictures, 

Only they were very few; 
And our chieftain left the platform. 
Went among his standing army 
Drawn upon the field of clover. 

Waiting for the grand review. 

Arma — had we Virgil's stylus 
We might say — virumque cano. 
And describe the sight imposing 

There upon the field displayed; 
Fine and feathery Portsmouth soldiers, 
Petersburg and Norfolk soldiers, 
Regiments of Richmond soldiers, 

Very showy dress parade. 

In the van rides Colonel Gary, 
Sitting straight up in the saddle 

* The poet was James Barron Hope. 



152 THE JAMESTOWN CELEBRATION. 1857 

With the Portsmouth colonel near him. 
On he rides amid his peers; 

And although the road is dusty. 

His no steed of Conestoga 

But one fit for the commander 
Of the Richmond Volunteers. 

Well, at last the show was over, 
And the weary crowd, departing. 
To the head of Jamestown Island 

Took their melancholy way; 
There was neither dance nor dinner. 
And in hunger lords and ladies 
Sullenly rejoined the steamers, 

Distant steamers, toilsome day. 

But when night upon the Island 
Settled down and all the camp-fires 
Redly gleamed out on the darkness 

Through the tall and spectral trees, 
Rockets rose from shore and river. 
Bursting into starry brightness. 
Flags of flame which, streaming o'er us, 

"Braved the battle and the Breeze." ^° 

Such the Jamestown celebration, 

As perhaps we yet may see it 

In Porte Crayon's pleasant sketches 

Done for Harper's Magazine: 
'Twas a highly patriotic. 
Picturesque, auspicious, happy. 
Hot and dusty celebration 

As was ever sketched or seen. 



LOU 

There's a little joyous-hearted girl, to see whom is a bless- 
ing, 
That lives a square or two from us, upon our quiet street; 
Her merry face is bright beyond the painter's sweet ex- 
pressing, 
And trippingly as dactyls move her tiny, twinkling feet. 
She seems as if she never yet had known a childish care. 
And the soft October sunshine is tangled in her hair. 

Above the din of noisy girls I catch her radiant laughter. 
Beneath the dusky lindens on the long, long summer days, 
And see her foremost in the romp, with dozens running 
after — 
The first beam dancing through a cloud chased by a troop 
of rays. 
'Tis but a poor similitude — the bravest would not do — 
For music, perfume, starlight, all seem commonplace for 
Lou ! 

At morning, when, with many books, I meet her on the way 
to 
Her school, I often wonder what they teach my little 
friend; 
The lessons she herself might teach are wiser far than Plato — 
Simplicity and truth, the means to compass wisest ends; 
But much I wish the privilege as tutor I might claim 
To ask her softly aimez-vousF and hear her answer j'aime. 

153 



154 LOU 

And sometimes when at church I see her happy, trustful 
features, 
A tender, wayward thought will come between me and 
the psalm. 
That like to such a little child must all we erring creatures 
In simple-minded faith appear, with passions hushed and 
calm. 
Before the Eternal Truth shall break upon our sight so 

dim — 
For such an one the Saviour saw, and bade come unto Him ! 



WASHINGTON 31 

Non incisa notis marmora publicis. 
Per quae spiritus et vita redit bonis 
Post mortem ducibus; .... 
. . . . clarius indicant 
Laudes, quam . . . Pierides; neque 
Si chartae sileant quod bene feceris, 
Mercedem tuleris. 

— HoBATius, Lib. IV, carmen 8. 



Virginians ! here, with cannon's deafening roar. 

And joyous tlirob of drum. 
From mountain gorge and from Atlantic shore. 

This hallowed day we come. 

'Tis one of Freedom's Sabbaths; and we give 

The time to Freedom's praise. 
As here, in bronze that almost seems to live. 

Our hero's form we raise. 

O ! it is well that glorious form should grace 

Our own Capitoline— 
Henceforth to all a consecrated place 

That holds a sacred shrine. 

The pomp of pennons, scarfs and tossing plumes 

Is fitly here displayed. 
Scattering the tints of summer's richest blooms 

Upon the bright parade. 
155 



156 WASHINGTON 

And worthy is it that with noble speech 

Which glows with vital pow'r. 
The laurel-crowned orator should teach 

The grandeur of the hour. 

While yet in reverent mood the poet brings, 

Amid the brilliant throng, 
What he would never give to flatter Kings, 

His modest meed of song. 

Not queenly Athens, from the breezy height 

Where ivory Pallas stood. 
As flowed along her streets in vestures white 

The choral multitude — 

Not regal Rome, when wide her bugles roU'd 

From Tagus to Cathay, 
As the long triumph rich with Orient gold 

Went up the Sacred Way — 

Not proud basilica or minster dim. 
Filled with War's glittering files, 

As battle fugue or Coronation Hymn 
Swept through the bannered aisles — 

Saw pageant, solemn, grand or gay to view. 

In moral so sublime. 
As this which seeks to crown with homage due 

The foremost man of Time ! 

Then let the gun from out its peaceful smoke 

Its thunder speak aloud. 
As when the rainbow of ovu* flag first broke 

Through battle's rifted cloud. 



WASHINGTON 157 

Peal, trumpets, peal ! your strain triumphant lend 

To stir the wintry air, 
And upward to the throne of God ascend 

The frankincense of prayer — 

Not ours but His the glory ever be. 

While yet the ages run. 
Who, that His favored people might be free. 

Gave earth a Washington! 

II 

Yes ! the sculptor's work is finished, and to life the metal 

starts. 
Token of a people's love and crowning tribute of the Arts. 

True, no need of molten image or of column skyward reared 
Had this Christian sage and soldier, to the world's great 
heart endeared; 

Yet Virginia's deep affection she would to the world pro- 
claim 
In this bronze and granite only less enduring than his fame: 

And the Sisters — they who wander by the old melodious 

River — 
Honour still the few whose virtues live forever and forever. 

Long in vain the Arts debated 'neath the amaranthine shade. 
How the fit apotheosis of our hero should be made: 

When a Muse said "O my sisters, there are two of mortal 

bu-th. 
Who are worthy to interpret all his greatness unto earth; 



158 WASHINGTON 

"Regally have we endowed them with the 'faculty divine,' 
Let us for this loftier service richer gifts to them assign." 

Then came Eloquence, attended by the stately rhythmic 

choir. 
And from her unfailing altar touched an Everett's lips with 

fire, 

WhUe the voiceless Muse of Sculpture, white and shining, 
raised her wand, ' 

And a yet more wondrous cunning straightway thrilled 
through Crawford's hand, 

And he let his nymphs and Hebes in their sleep of snowy 

stone. 
With the grand old dreamy beauty of the Greek around them 

thrown, 

Catching from his theme majestic, in his thought's enkindled 

glow. 
Something of the forceful purpose marble-wrought of An- 

gelo. 

In his quiet Roman workshop months the sculptor toiled: 

at length 
All completed rose the model in its glory and its strength. 

Then beyond the Alps they bore it, statue of the deathless 

name, 
To the distant German city there to be baptised in flame. 

'Twas a glorious thing to witness, as the swarthy artisan 
Set the fiery torrent free and seething in the mould it 
ran: 



WASHINGTON 159 

But great joy there was in Mtinich, when the metal, furnace- 
tried, 
Came to sight a radiant image, perfect then and purified. 

Thus through trials yet intenser and a more refining blaze 
Passed our hero, pure and scatheless, in the Revolution's 
days. 

Horse and rider, decked with garlands, now in lengthened 

jubilee 
Journey through the pleasant Rhineland onward to the Zuy- 

der Zee. 

Under quaint and leaning gables stops at last the ponderous 

wain. 
Where the dykes of Holland's seaport backward hurl the 

angry main. 

Everywhere the youths and maidens thronged to see it mov- 
ing by. 

Grey-haired sires and matrons cheered it, on its joyous 
way— and why.?* 

'Twas that men of every nation, in our Washington's career. 
See their own commanding hero yet more gloriously appear. 

WUliam's calm and silent courage, Tell's imperious hate 

of wrong 
Dwelt within and fired his nature large and resolute and 

strong. 

Yes, and there Rienzi's passion grander-statured owned con- 
trol 
Unto Hampden's lofty virtues regnant firmly in his soul. 



160 WASHINGTON 

Therefore 'twas, the fair-haired children of the ancient 

Father Rhine 
Gratefully aroimd his statue freshest roses would entwine: 

Therefore 'twas the honest Flemings deemed the bark that 

bore it blest. 
Fading o'er the watery azure, sailing down the crimson west. 

Now for us who claim to love him with a fonder, dearer love. 
Upon whom he yet may scatter benedictions from above; 

Us, who tread the soil his footsteps made forever holy 

ground. 
Where his sacred ashes slumber, where his fame sheds light 

around; 

'Tis to deck this noble figure, raised in airy grace on high. 
With its final wreaths of homage, fragrant as his memory. 

Ah ! the hand is cold that wrought it — ^fondly would the poet 

crave 
Just to place a simple flow'ret on the sculptor's early grave. 

Say not the sombre angel stilled in death his manly heart. 
All too soon for life's ambition, all too soon for Christian 
Art. 

Well he laboured whatsoever here his hands had found to do. 
And submissive to his Master passed away from mortal 
view. 

Thus amid the wailing music of the Requiem, mournful, 

grand. 
As with joyous hallelujahs sought Mozart the Spirit Land; — 



WASHINGTON 161 

Thus from faint celestial glimpses and from well assured re- 
nown 

Called to gaze on fairer visions, Raphael laid his pencil 
down. 

Though for him the tearful Muses sorrow in their moonlit 

home — 
Though a tranquil light has faded from the deep blue sky 

of Rome — 

Gone before us he has given unto earth immortal grace, 
And in Art's bright hemicycle found among his peers a 
place; 

Gladly they accord our brother lasting, monumental fame. 
Blended in the bronze above us with earth's proudest, 
grandest name. 

Ill 

O ! 'tis a noble sight. 
The fiery steed, just checked, that paws the ground, 
As if impatient for the clarion's sound 

That calls to deadly fight. 

The war-horse says ha ! ha ! 
And snuffs, in very insolence of pride 
With high arch'd neck and furious nostril wide, 

The battle from afar. 

But sits our matchless one 
Serene, as erst in war's intensest wrath. 
And points forever to the golden path 

Of empire and the sim. 



162 WASHINGTON 

The high and holy calm 
That crowns his brow, there cast its aureole. 
When dangers dire be met with equal soul 

Or bore the victor's palm. 

So 'mid the whirling snow 
Where freeziug Delaware rolled darkly by, 
Beyond the shore he turned his eagle eye 

Where duty bade him go. 

So after sad defeat, 
From hushed Long Island's camp he sent his hosts 
At midnight o'er the tide like sheeted ghosts. 

And glorified retreat. 

And such his tranquil mien. 
When over drenched redoubt and shattered wall 
He saw the Briton's lion banner fall. 

At Yorktown's final scene. 

O ! for that self-command. 
That sweet serenity, that grace refined. 
That wisdom throned within a lofty mind. 

To save the freeman's land. 

Here, venerated shade! 
As proudly we thy mighty deeds review 
And what, as well, thou didst forbear to do — 

No trust by thee betrayed — 

Impart thy love of truth — 
Teach us the good and ill alike to bear. 
So shall the State with Freedom's Goddess share 

Her bright perpetual youth. 



WASHINGTON 163 



IV 



And now, my brothers, what to us remains 
Of solemn duty which the day ordains, 
WhUe yet Virginia's gifted sons prolong, 
In thoughtful eloquence and lyric song. 
The fond ascriptions of a nation's praise. 
Which my too feeble voice attempts to raise? 
'Tis that we here in gratitude renew 
The patriot-vows to country ever due. 
And on this holy altar firmly swear 
The blessed compact never to impair 
Which the Republic's fathers gave, to prove 
The boundless wealth of their undying love. 
As when a planet, first in motion wheeled. 
In placid circles sweeps creation's field, 
Nor tumult causes there, nor haply fears 
The angry jarring of its sister spheres, 
But moves forever on its destined way. 
In liquid music with benignant ray; 
So may each added star, that makes in turn 
Our constellated glories brighter burn. 
Drop silently into its ordered place 
To run its radiant and unpausing race; 
Blessing and blest, 'gainst every shock secure. 
Through time's revolving cycles to endure. 
Till, like Orion's belt, oiu- ensign's bars 
Shall blaze with countless multitudes of stars. 
Their mingled light into one halo thrown, 
But each a planet dazzling when alone ! 

But Time, alas ! stiU crumbles into dust 
The brazen column and the marble bust; 



164 WASHINGTON 

Dashes the image from its pedestal 

And weaves for mighty States the funeral pall; 

Thus the proud statue, which we rear in bronze 

And wreathe today with Freedom's gonfalons. 

May moulder into ruin, when the State 

Which gave it birth is waste and desolate. 

But truth iminjured shall forever stand. 

And deathless mind can mock the spoiler's hand: 

And so, wherever Law shall build its fane 

And Learning push its humanizing reign — 

Wherever o'er the futm-e's misty seas 

Men shall revere the name of Socrates, 

And generous youth with rapture dwell upon 

The shining page which tells of Marathon — 

Into what climes remote the sacred ark 

Shall yet be safely borne in Freedom's bark 

Freighted with legacies of worth unpriced. 

The truths of Luther and the creed of Christ, — 

There Washington shall live, and there, enshrined 

Within the vast heart-temple of mankind. 

Our honoured Commonwealth shall stUl receive 

The purest worship grateful love can give — 

Her praise according millions shall proclaim 

And earth's remotest age shall bless Virginia's name ! 



SONG, 

TO ONE WHO WILL UNDERSTAND IT 

Come, lady, step into the boat. 

Our pennon flutters free. 
And with the sunset we shall float 

Upon the swelling sea. 

Before the light of day grows dim 
Our love-vows shall be told. 

Where yon small speck on ocean's rim 
Peeps o'er the crests of gold. 

Thy sweet discourse my ear shall fill. 
Thy voice my soul subdue, 

As, like the unprisoned bird, at will 
We shoot across the blue. 

And when upon that distant strand 

Our loves shall be confest 
'Twill be to me the "Happy Land," 

"The Island of the Blest." 



165 



THE OLD DOMINION JULEP BOWL32 

[to g. p. r. james] 

Goodbye ! they say the time is up — 

The "solitary horseman" leaves us. 
We'd like to take a "stirrup cup," 

Though much indeed the parting grieves us; 
We'd like to hear the glasses clink 

Around a board where none were tipsy 
And with a hearty greeting drink 

This toast — ^The Author of the Gipsy ! 

The maidens fair of many a clime 

Have blubbered o'er his tearful pages. 
The Ariosto of his time, 

Romancist of the Middle Ages: 
In fiction's realm a shining star, 

(We own ourselves his grateful debtors) 
Who would not call our G. P. R.— 

"H. B. M. C."— a Man of Letters? 

But not with us his pen avails 

To win our hearts — this English scion. 
Though there are not so many tales 

To every roaring British Lion — 
For he has yet a prouder claim 

To praise than dukes and lords inherit, 
Or wealth can give or lettered fame — 

His honest heart and modest merit. 
166 



THE OLD DOMINION JULEP BOWL 167 

An Englishman whose sense of right 

Comes down from glorious Magna Charta, 
He loves, and loves with all his might, 

His home, his Queen, Pale Ale, the Garter: 
This last embraces much, 'tis best 

To comprehend just what is stated — 
For Honi Soit — you know the rest 

And need not have the French translated. 

O empty bauble of renown, 

So quickly lost and won so dearly. 
Our Consul wears the Muses' crown. 

We love him for his virtues merely: 
A Prince, he's ours as much as Fame's, 

And reigns in friendship kindly o'er us. 
Then call him George Prince Regent James, 

And let his country swell the chorus. 

His country ! we would gladly pledge 

Its living greatness and its glory — 
In Peace admired, and "on the edge 

Of battle" terrible in story: 
A little isle, its cliffs it rears 

'Gainst winds and waves in wrath united. 
And nobly for a thousand years 

Has kept the fire of freedom lighted. 

A glowing spark in time there came. 

Like sunrise o'er the angry water. 
And here is fed, an altar flame. 

By Britain's democratic daughter — 
From land to land a kindred fire 

Beneath the billow now is burning, 
O may it thrill the magic wire 

With only love, and love returning ! 



168 THE OLD DOMINION JULEP BOWL 

But since we cannot meet again 

Where wine and wit are freely flowing, 
Old friend ! this measure take and drain 

A brimming health to us in going: 
And far beneath Italia's sky. 

Where sunsets glow with hues prismatic, 
Bring out the bowl ^' when you are dry, 

And pledge us by the Adriatic ! 

Richmond, Va., September 20, 1858, 



"MAY-DAY" 

What have we here? A pretty scene — 
Where, sporting on a sylvan green, 
Before a flowery-kirtled queen, 
In Youth's delicious hej^-day. 
The dear old souls we love so well 
In Watteau's paintings— beau and belle- 
Have met in happy groups to cel- 
ebrate their ancient May-day. 

Just opposite the stately throne 
(The queen, observe, sits not alone, 
The king is there to claim his own) 

We see the youthful dancers; 
There, right and left, around the pole. 
They move in music's soft control, 
And mark the figiu-e, bless my soul ! 

It is — it is "the Lancers." 

And yonder near the beechen grove. 
Whose twilight depths invite to rove. 
The very place to whisper love. 

So dark and cool the shade is — 
Are dames in hoops; although 'tis true 
Their skirts are not so amplitu- 
dinous and wonderful to view. 

As those of modern ladies. 
169 



170 "MAY-DAY" 

See close at hand a cavalier. 

My eye ! but how uncommon queer 

Does Coim.t Fitzbattleaxe appear 

With tights and ruff and rapier! 
Thus, moving through the brilliant hall. 
Displaying lower limbs as small 
At Mrs. Gwin's late fancy ball 

You might have seen Lord Napier. 

The gallant to his charmer bows — 
'Tis clear she is not yet his spouse — 
You almost seem to hear his vows. 

As kindly she receives him; 
He swears that she is brighter far 
Than regal night's most radiant star, 
And she, the beauteous Lady Char- 
lotte, little fool ! believes him. 

And as he bows we know that soon. 

When May has lost itself in June, 

They'll walk to church some pleasant noon, 

(There soars the lofty steeple) ! — 
And, at the lucky Count's commands. 
The good old vicar in his bands 
Shall join in one their wUling hands. 

And make two happy people. 

Thus nms for aye the world away. 
And though "it is not always May," 
Yet all abloom once more today 

Returns the genial season; 
And as the yearly roses blow 
Fond loVers' honeyed words still flow, 
And maidens wed, as long ago. 

Without or rhyme or reason. 



"MAY-DAY" 171 

There's notMiig either new or strange 

In natiu-e's still recurring range. 

Men are the same— they simply change 

Or modify the fashion; 
But spring, in robe of brilliant dyes. 
Shall come while time yet onward flies. 
And ever woman's dove-like eyes 

Shall light the tender passion. 



ROBERT BURNS 34 

[JANUAEY 25, I869] 

One hundred years ago to-day, 

Poor Burns was born, — the master 
Who lived and wrote and passed away 

In triumph and disaster. 
A little life of work and wrong 

And painful incompleteness, 
Yet mellowed and made glad with song 

Of most surpassing sweetness. 

His birth was humble — not for him 

The benefits of station, 
Rude nature, 'mid her mountains grim. 

Supplied his education; 
No costly culture might allow 

The boy's resources narrow. 
And so they sent him to the plough 

Who could not go to Harrow. 

But lofty lineage, reaching far 

To earth's fresh, early morning. 
Had he, whose brow Wit's diamond star 

Shone brightest when adorning. 
Above his cradle Clio smiled 

And bards of ages hoary. 
The Skalds themselves owned Burns their child, 

A proud ancestral glory. 
172 



ROBERT BURNS 173 

His fondest wish, his constant prayer 

Was for his native Highlands, 
No spot so dear to him as Ayr, 

In all the British Islands; 
He sang of Scotia's dusky heath. 

Her lochs and valleys hazy, 
And wove a lasting laurel- wreath 

Of one wee bonny daisy. 

And yet all lands and men were held 

Within his love's wide ocean. 
Whose waves beat music, as they swelled, 

To his own lyric motion; 
The genial simshine of his soul. 

From its celestial azure, 
Warmed human hearts from pole to pole 

With sympathetic pleasure. 

Whate'er was human that he knew 

(As once was said in Latin) 
To be akin, and loved it, too. 

In calico or satin; 
And so his pathos and his mirth 

The sportive and the tender. 
Reign round the Cotter's homely hearth, 

And in the halls of splendour. 

He sinned, but who his guilt shall weigh 

In earthly balance rightly? 
What man among us all can say 

A word of censure lightly.'* 
Or with his wildest freaks divine 

"\Vhat agonies were mingled. 
That turned to lees the golden wine 

Which through his tissues tingled? 



174 ROBERT BURNS 

O manliest bard by poets praised, 

O gentlest, truest nature ! 
Wbo your own fellow mortal raised 

To manhood's proper stature. 
We honor in your life the most, 

Not gifts of mind resplendent, 
But the proud claim you dared to boast, 

Of being independent. 

Another hundred years shall sweep 

To Lethe's sullen waters 
All- things whereat men laugh or weep. 

Earth's conquests, sorrows, slaughters; 
But rescued from the silent shore 

Of that oblivious river. 
His fame shall brighten more and more 

And Burns shall live forever. 



HEXAMETERS AT JAMESTOWN 

Sixteen ladies and gentlemen made up a party at Brandon 
Ivy to plant on the old churcli tower, fallen to ruin, at James- 
town: 
So quite early one pleasant and peaceful morning of April, 
Mounting the deck of a high-pressure, swift-sure, trig little 

steamboat, 
Down stream bravely they sailed, while gaily the ladies their 

'kerchiefs 
Fluttered by way of Farewell to such as behind on the wharf 

stood. 
Surely the sunlit James ne'er bore on its tremulous bosom 
Vessel so freighted with loveliness, innocence, flowers, and 

fruit-cake. 
Musical laughter, like silvery bells or the falling of waters. 
Rose on the grateful breeze which rippled the awning above 

us; 
While 'neath the cloud of the canvas the star-like eyes of 

the maidens 
Brilliantly lighted both sides of the steamer till each was 

a starboard. 
So that a bachelor captain had lost both his heart and his 

bearings; 
Eyes that with pleasure at times still marked where rested 

the baskets. 
Since the villegiatura must always be hampered with 

luncheon. 

After a while, in the distance, Jamestown's mouldering brick- 
work, 

Softened and saddened by sunshine, greeted the sight of 
the pilgrims — 

175 



176 HEXAMETERS AT JAMESTOWN 

Image of mournful decay in the midst of the beautiful land- 
scape. 

River before and forest behind, and the blue of the welkin 

Bending in tenderness over the delicate green of the wheat- 
fields — 

Green that gives promise of gold in the regal abundance of 
harvest. 

Just as the well-filled baskets give an assurance of good 
things. 

Reaching the Island in safety at last, and dropping the 
anchor. 

Swiftly to shore we glide in the four-oared cut-away row 
boat — 

So in the old time Christopher Newport himself may have 
landed 

Just at this bloom of the year when Spring had unfolded 
her banners 

Over the woods and streams of her own Ancient Dominion. 

Holy the calm that reigns in the moss-grown, desolate 

churchyard; 
And as a party of tourists, walking across the Piazza, 
Murray under their arms, and filling the court with their 

chit-chat. 
All of a sudden are hushed as they enter the nave of 

St. Peter's, 
So when the Brandon pilgrims came to the crumbling en- 
closure 
Guarding the dust of the good and the brave that slumber 

at Jamestown, 
Pensive and silent were they, and the awe of the place was 

unbroken. 
Reverent, musing, we linger to trace the inscriptions in 

Latin, 



HEXAMETERS AT JAMESTOWN 177 

Almost illegible now, and fading away from the marble; 

Then to the time-eaten turret, walking with decorous foot- 
steps. 

Slowly as walked to the temple the worshippiog settlers 
aforetime. 

Careful we set in the consecrate soil the shoots of the 
ivy 

Where the colonial pilgrims had planted the germs of an 
empire. 

Then spoke Everett, Edward (first-rate dactyl and spondee. 
Deftly the orator's name runs into hexameter measure). 
Eloquent words of response to the simple greeting of 

welcome 
Offered in modest phrase by one of the sons of Virginia. 
Soft, as his accents arose on the air, from the ages de- 
parted 
Quaint apparitions and shadows majestical gathered around 

us: 
John Smith, valorous captain, Powhatan friendly in coun- 
cil, 
Pocahontas, beloved as "his dearest iewell and daughter," 
Gazing in timid delight on the shinuig plane of the river, 
Where was a steamer that bore the legended name of the 

maiden. 
Gladly we would have communed with the knight and his 

comely companion, 
Gladly have shaken the hand of the brave old Indian chief- 
tain; 
But as the voice of the speaker again relapsed into silence. 
Suddenly vanished the shapes, and vacancy stood in their 

places — 
Just as the music had ceased whose magical spell had evoked 
them. 



178 HEXAMETERS AT JAMESTOWN 

After the speaking was luncheon, then we returned to the 
steamboat. 

Ladies and gentlemen pleased with the task they had fitly 
performed; 

Thus was the pilgrimage ended, thus was replanted the 
creeper. 

Over the mouldering tower to hang its rich curtain again — 

And as the ivy shall cling, with its graceful and delicate ten- 
drils. 

Close to the ruin it wraps in the evergreen mantle of love. 

Closer and closer for aye when, breaking in fury, the tempest. 

Pitiless, wrathful, descends from the darkened and ominous 
sky; 

So may our dearest aflPections inwreathe the magnificent 
fabric 

Reared on the solid foundations of Jamestown and Plym- 
outh of old — 

Fabric that never shall fall, upheld by the prayers of a 
people. 

Till the last sand of the ages shall ebb through the perish- 
ing glass! 



THE MOTTO 

Somebody sent me a dear little note. 

The paper was Moinier's, the writing was fair; 
Shall I here tell you what somebody wrote? 

No — let the muse keep the secret from air. 
But this was the motto the seal had to show. 
This — "C'est le coeur qui fait valoir les mots." 

Somebody walked with me. Light was her tread 

Over the beautifvJ sunshiny wold; 
Shall I here tell you what somebody said.'' 

The simlight has faded, the words have grown cold. 
Do you believe in the motto or no.^" 
C'est — -"C'est le coeur qui fait valoir les mots." 

Somebody sang me a sweet little song 

Full of all tender imspeakable things. 
Shall I repeat them.P No, ever so long 

They have flown oflP on the swiftest of wings, 
And the nest they deserted is white with the snow — 
Ah, "C'est le cceur qui fait valoir les mots." 

Shall I with censiu'e link somebody's name 

For the note, and the walk, and the fly-away birds.'' 

No, the dear creature was never to blame — 
She had no heart to give value to words; 

Sweetly as Hybla her accents may flow, 

Mais "C'est le coeur qui fait valoir les mots." 



179 



TO j:. V. v.* 1859 

Smooth seas, fair breezes and bright skies attend 

Your rapid flight to Europe's distant climes; 
This wish I offer in these farewell rhymes, 

With a sincere "God bless you" to my friend; 
And may the aspirations high which blend 
With the deep sadness of the parting hour 
Rise into shapes of beauty and of power 
Beneath your patient chisel, and the end 
Bring the sure guerdon of a lasting fame. 
But, oh, remember well that art is long 
And life is short, be resolute and strong; 
So may Virginia yet be proud to claim 

One whom the world of Art itself shall know 
A new Thorwaldsen or an Angelo. 

* Edward V. Valentine, the scxilptor. 



180 



VIRGINIA, IN OUR FLOWING BOWLS" ^^ 

Vieginia! In our flowing bowls 

Thy name we would remember. 
Dear as is Plymouth to the souls 

Of Pilgrims in December — 
They hold their banquet as the gloom 

Of winter round them closes; 
Our festive board is all abloom 

With spring's retm-ning roses. 

The poet sings our father's deeds, 

Their forms and phrase outlandish. 
And yet how far our age exceeds 

The age of Smith and Standish! 
The modern Pilgrims journey all 

By steam o'er land and ferry, 
And we the "Starving Time" recall 

In turtle soup and sherry. 

Still somethirig noble we may learn 

In yearly thus reviving 
The virtues of those settlers stern — 

Their suffering and striving. 
Oiu- fathers wore a knightly grace 

Above their fiery passion. 
Which, like their doublets and their lace. 

Is sadly out of fashion. 
181 



182 "VIRGINIA, IN OUR FLOWING BOWLS" 

Tlie Spaniard traces in the Cid 

The Campeador's glory; 
The stirring Niebelungen Lied 

Tells many a hero's story — 
Oh, more than any German myth 

The highest praise deserving. 
When shall you have, brave Captain Smith, 

Your Halleck or your Irving? 

What though, indeed, you left behind 

No chivalrous descendants 
In other days a sword to find 

And fight for Independence — 
Bear witness to your lofty traits. 

Our proud historic pages — 
The ancient Mother of the States 

Shall cherish them for ages. 

Yom* valor, proved in Paynim fights, 

And tried by wUd disorder. 
With Spottswood's "Golden Horseshoe" Knights 

Went trooping o'er the border; 
It stood on York's embattled lines 

With yet a presence grander, 
And still its undimmed lustre shines 

In Scott, the great commander. 

Loved Commonwealth of boyhood's rule ! 

What recollections cluster 
Around the whitewashed old field school. 

The county coiu't-house muster; 
From all the city toils and gains 

Our hearts are turning now, sirs. 
To dwell in those sweet Argive plains 

Where first we donned the trousers. 



'VIRGINIA, IN OUR FLOWING BOWLS" 183 

Still does the wavy Ridge extend 

Its outlines soft before us — 
Still does Virginia's blue areb bend 

In tender beauty o'er us; 
The oldest exUe breathes her air 

With all the latest comers. 
And here tonight we gladly share 

The fervor of her Summers ! 

"A land of just and old renown" 

To native or to resident — 
"Where Freedom broadens slowly down 

From President to President" — 
We change the laureate's line — too bad ! 

But think, in all her crises, 
How many Presidents she's had. 

How very few of Vices! 

Then, brothers of the good old State, 

Permit an absent rhymer 
To pledge the day you celebrate. 

But not in Rudesheimer. 
He likes, whatever others think, 

Virginia's own libation, 
A whiskey julep is the drink 

That typifies the nation ! 

The ice we take of liquid blue 

From Wenham's crystal fountains, 
The whiskey sparkles with the dew 

Of old Virginia's moimtains — 
The sugar borrow without stint 

From sunny Opelousas, 
By every stream springs up the mint, 

From Kennebec's to Coosa's. 



184 "VIRGINIA, IN OUR FLOWING BOWL" 

Que voulez vous? 'Tis this — we wait 
A wheatstraw from the prairie, 

(The Hoosier or the Sucker State, 
Their practice does not vary). 

Here North and South and East and West 
Are met in sweet communion — 

Now drain the cup — this toast is best, — 

ViBGINIA AND THE UnION ! 



POESY: AN ESSAY IN RHYME ^s 

In ancient Greece where Art, we know, was born 

In the fresh gladness of her early morn; 

When Learning, laurelled goddess, sweetly smiled 

Above the cradle of her fairest child — 

They kept in Athens sacred festival 

Of eloquence, and song, and wit, and all 

That made of Attica a classic land 

From lofty Piudus to the shining strand; 

With music's lordly swell, the stately train 

Moved onward to Minerva's glittering fane, 

Where from the fervid lips of genius flowed 

The measured chorus and sparkling ode 

Pure as Ilissus, where its waters run 

A stream of flashing silver in the sun; 

And thousand voices, mingling in the paean, 

Stirred the light wave upon the blue ^Egean. 

Two thousand changeful years have passed away 
Of cruel havoc and of fell decay — 
The polished temples, 'neath the brilliant sky 
Of old Athena, now in ruin lie; 
And a deep pathos, a most tender pity. 
Subdues the soul within the ancient city: 
The Erectheum — how each fragment shines! 
What desolate beauty in the broken lines ! 
The Parthenon — alas, the summer breeze 
Kisses no more at morn the perfect frieze 
Which once revealed the glory and the joy 
Panathenaic to the Grecian boy. 
185 



186 POESY: AN ESSAY IN RHYME 

But the great poems of the bards sublime 
Remain unwasted by the wreck of Time; 
Graceful and calm, in symmetry severe. 
These wondrous temples of the mind appear; 
And light, in richer flood than that which fills 
The smiling circuit of the Athenian hills. 
Streams upon shaft and portico and floor, 
"The light that never was on sea or shore!" 

Well may we then the lyric mode combine 

With glowing eloquence at Learning's shrine. 

When our Panathensea's rites we hold. 

Not with the gorgeous pomp and pride of old. 

Not yielding homage to the gods that reigned 

On high Olympus, as the mythos feigned. 

But with ascriptions of perennial praise 

To the brave singers of immortal lays; 

And all who robe the beauteous form of Truth 

In the bright colors of unfading youth. 

From -lEschylus to Shakespeare, from the trees 

Where Wisdom early strayed with Socrates, 

To the lone tower where Newton's tireless eye 

Read the strange riddle of the midnight sky. 

Such rites we celebrate when Science calls 

Her favored children to a hundred halls. 

To bless the guerdons, nobly won, which prove 

An alma mater's all-abiding love ! 

You ask for rhymes, you bid me idly seek 
To throw the soft enchantment of the Greek 
O'er the rapt sense in a beguiling dream — 
Vain task! but still be Poesy my theme: 
Turn with me then awhile, and learn the spell 
Its ministers have left on "flood and fell" — 



POESY: AN ESSAY IN RHYME 187 

Summon tiie Past, and bid its voice rehearse 
Man's checkered story since the primal curse; 
Or take Imagination's widest range 
O'er ivied battlement and moated grange, 
And mark what renders most a people great. 
And still survives the ruin of the State; 
How the long, joyous, pensive, tender strain 
Of the world's music cheats the world of pain — 
How Fancy brightens with her magic rays 
The shadowy vista of departed days. 
And casts along the Ages' downward slope 
The blended hues of Memory and of Hope ! 

Soft you, my modest muse, nor rashly dare 

A flight so lofty through the realms of air; 

With a vague sense of littleness opprest 

I walk around the Theban eagle's nest, 

Conscious that could I steal his mighty wings 

To me such very unfamiliar things 

Would be as useless as were Roman sandals 

To one of Attila's large-footed Vandals — 

And here the horrid old Horatian maxim. 

Which the poor rhymer's had so long to tax him. 

The bard remembers and may fitly quote 

(Though doubtless many have the line by rote) 

That neither gods nor men, m their distress. 

Nor yet the columns of the weekly press. 

Can view as other than a dreadful wrong 

The lowlier oflFerings of tuneful song — 

A line which means, as certain critics think. 

That smaller poets should not deal in ink. 

And that imtil the mighty prophets come 

The part of Poesy is to be dumb. 

Dishonored ever be the narrow rule 



188 POESY: AN ESSAY IN RHYME 

Which claims no reverence in kind Nature's school. 

Which neither Summer's birds nor blooms obey 

In the glad minstrelsy of rising day. 

Your MUtons, Goethes, are an age apart: 

Meanwhile shall no one touch the world's sad heart? 

The stately aloe's snowy bloom appears 

But once, we know, within a himdred years; 

Because, forsooth, the aloe is the glory 

Of Chatsworth's notable conservatory, 

Shall not the modest daisy from the sod 

Turn its meek eyes in beauty up to God? 

In Nature's daily prayer, when comes the dawn 

To tell its beads upon the dewy lawn. 

Shall the sweet matins of the rosy hours 

Miss the pure incense of the little flowers? 

O gentle spirits, wheresoe'er you dwell. 

On breezy upland or in quiet dell. 

Whether you sing in solitude and shade, 

Or in the silllen, crowded haunts of trade — 

Whose simple rhyming, in its artless grace. 

Has touched some hidden sorrow of the race. 

Or taught the world one humble lesson more 

Of subtle beauty all unknown before. 

Or soothed one heart just when its need was sorest 

With harmonies of ocean and of forest — 

To you be ever honorable meed. 

In spite of captious Horace and his creed. 

While the great poets soar beyond the ken 

Of the world's toUing, heaving mass of men. 

Like the proud falcon, quickly lost to view. 

In the wide field of heaven's o'erarchiug blue — 

You linger round the dwellings of our love. 

As birds that carol in the eaves above, 

And fill forever, as the days increase, 

Our homes with music and our hearts with peace. 



POESY: AN ESSAY IN RHYME 189 

The world has changed — there are who gravely doubt 

If the great epics have not long died out — 

No more in grandeur the Homeric line 

Repeats the story of a Troy divine — 

No more the pealing medieval hymn 

Rolls down the shadowy canto, vast and dim, 

A minster, noblest of cathedral piles, 

Where Spenser rambles through the woodland aisles — 

No more the high Miltonic verse reveals 

The glooms and glories of the awful seals — 

In blaze supernal or in dread eclipse — 

Of some new uninspired Apocalypse: 

If these are with th' imperishable Past 

The epic surely had not sung its last; 

For never swept across Time's ample stage 

An unimpassioned, unheroic age — 

And countless generations yet to be. 

In later eras of the world, shall see 

A life as worthy of the epic strain 

As that which fired the age of Charlemagne, 

And future masters of the lyre shall raise 

The swelling epos of our modern days. 

But while the amaranth waits for kingly brows. 

Some laurel wreaths our grateful love allows 

To him whose sunny genius lifts to light 

The meanest objects of our daily sight: 

Who seeks to brighten still the links that bind 

In blest commimion all of human kind; 

Or passion's tempest in the breast would calm 

With some sweet, lowly, penitential psalm: 

Such poets sow the seeds of truth and beauty 

To blossom into holy faith and duty— 

And though the tares of selfishness and pride 

Spring up to choke them upon every side. 

And many a tender shoot the world erases 



190 POESY: AN ESSAY IN RHYME 

From the hard pavements of its market places, 
Some fall on friendly soil, warm hearts and true. 
Where watered by affection's kindliest dew 
They stretch their boughs into the upper air 
And in due season richer fruitage bear 
Than fabled branches hung with globes of gold, 
Some thirty, fifty, some an hundred fold ! 

WoiJdst know the value of a simple rhyme 

Sent down the widening, deepening stream of time? 

Let Memory seek, amidst the august scenes 

So recent — scarce a lustrum intervenes, — 

The chamber where the dying Webster lay 

And heard the elegiac melodies of Gray 

Mingling with ocean's everlasting roar 

Borne through the casement from the neighb'ring shore, 

The deathless music of th' immortal mind 

With Nature's grandest symphonies combined. 

Or note the contrast well afforded here 

And let the triumph of the bard appear. 

Two monumental tributes to the brave 

Mark one a famous, one a lonely grave — 

Earth's proudest city, gay with gilded spires 

And domes which kindle in the sunset's fires. 

Guards one, with marble muses looking down 

Where sleeps the dust that wore the Caesar's crown: 

The universal Earth, the common air 

Contain the other — it is everywhere. 

As far as mighty England's form of speech. 

Blown wide upon the winds of fame, can reach. 

Before the mental eye its shape it rears 

Above a turf bedewed with grateful tears; 

And when Napoleon's obsequies, with all 

Their gorgeous pageantry of plumes and pall. 



POESY: AN ESSAY IN RHYME 191 

Have faded quite away from man's esteem. 

Like the swift splendors of a passing dream; 

When the proud chapel shall itseK display 

A shattered monument of sad decay — 

And queenly Paris shall have shared the fate 

Of Tadmor overthrown and desolate; 

That plaintive Monody, whose numbers tell 

Of him that bravely at Corxinna fell — 

His silent bvirial near the midnight camp, 

By the pale moonbeam and the glimmering lamp. 

Shall stUl the cruel waste of years defy, 

Endiu-ing cenotaph of Poesy ! 

Wouldst learn the fire and frenzy that belong 

To the hot verses of the battle-song? 

Hark ! to the soimd that the exulting breeze 

Brings to our land across the rolling seas 

From distant Gallia's proud ancestral shores. 

Where to the fight the glittering column pours. 

The active Zouave, the gallant, gay Chasseur, 

Feel a new life and impvilse in the stir — 

With ribbons decked, with faces bronzed and scarred. 

Move on the serried legions of the Guard, 

Whose steady look of fierce resolve befits 

The veteran chivalry of Austerlitz. 

Listen! what thrilling words are these that greet 

The excited thousands of that crowded street? 

Not freedom's flag the imperial line displays, 

But yet they sing, they shout the Marseillaise! 

In vain the cautious monarch would repress 

That song's impassioned and resistless stress. 

Unchained as lightning, with electric start 

Its sudden thriU is sent from heart to heart; 

And if, O Italy, devoted land. 



192 POESY: AN ESSAY IN RHYME 

Once more begirt with beauty, thou shalt stand 
Erect among the nations of the earth, 
' In all the strength of Freedom's second birth. 
The force that still must drive the avenging steel 
Lives in the lyric of Rouget de Lisle ! 

And yet not long, O Poesy, not long, 

May War, earth's oldest and its direst Wrong, 

Demand thy paeans — Mercy waits and pleads 

With thee to celebrate her glorious deeds. 

While many a golden-roofed cathedral rings 

With the Te Deums of victorious kings, 

And from the crimsoned field, by combat riven. 

The blood of hecatombs appeals to Heaven, 

Thine is a higher, holier evangel. 

And thine the rustling pinions of the angel 

That comes, with softest sunshine in its face. 

To soothe and bless and elevate the race — 

Celestial visitant that walked with Burns 

"Following the plough," or when the poet turns 

To catch the Cotter's evening hymn of praise 

Simg by the ingle's ever cheerful blaze; — 

That dwelt with Rydal's bard all rotmd the year 

By the sweet margin of Winandermere; 

And flying wide across the dusky downs 

In the heart of England's fevered towns. 

Unseen of other men, serenely stood 

Beside the form of gentle Thomas Hood, 

With drooping plumage and dejected eyes 

By the dark river of the Bridge of Sighs ! 

The world has changed; there are who much deplore 
That the bright rein of Poesy is o'er — 
Who tell us that as man each year recedes 



POESY: AN ESSAY IN RHYME 193 

From the sweet trustfulness of childhood's creeds. 

And sees these cherished blossoms die within 

The baleful glare of worldliness and sin — 

So, as the planet on its course is rolled. 

As age of iron follows age of gold. 

The dear illusion we would not resist 

Fades, like a curtain of dissolviag mist, 

Before the glare of science, reaching far 

From wave to mountain, and from star to star. 

And still dethroning, disenchanting fast 

The idols and the idylls of the Past. 

We'll not believe it. Shall the windy ocean 

Stop the careering of its rhythmic motion, 

Or 'neath the moonlight, when the whirlwinds cease. 

No longer woo us to a dream of peace 

Because a Maury, standing at the helm. 

Drives the proud bark of Science o'er its realm. 

Detects its viewless cm-rents in their coxirses 

And brings to measurement its mighty forces? 

Shall not the sun still seek the Jungfrau's side 

To deck with diamonds his majestic bride — 

Shall not the glacier's beryl-tinted caves. 

Beneath the glittering waste of icy waves. 

Still shake with hallelujahs, peal on peal. 

And all Chamouni's templed valley reel. 

From brawling Arve to pinnacled Aiguille, 

Because a learned botanist imcloses 

The scarlet petals of the Alpine roses. 

And some pale student asks the frozen arch 

The secret of the glacier's onward march? 

Ah, "star-eyed Science!" Fancy claims in thee 

A loving sister of the World To Be — 

Admits each worthy, reverent son of thine 

As priest to worship at her radiant shrine. 



I 



V 



194 POESY: AN ESSAY IN RHYME 

And comes with tenderest sorrow, in her turn, 
To place a garland upon Humboldt's um. 

AU, aU are poets on whom God confers 

The gift of Nature's true interpreters; 

While the eternal hills their anthems raise 

And sweUiag oceans vocalize his praise. 

But not alone from woods, and rocks, and streams, 

Niagaras and Alps, and starry gleams. 

Must the true poet catch his iaspirations 

To chant the De Profxmdis of the nations — 

'Tis his to tvu-n from Nature's outward thiugs 

And trace, with prophet-glance, the hidden springs 

Of human life and action ia the soul. 

Whence the unceasiag torrents rage and roll 

With headlong fiu"y to the shoreless main. 

In thunder worthy of his loftiest strain. 

And not from cloud and raiabow must he draw 

The subtle principle of Beauty's law. 

'Tis his to wander from piirpureal skies 

And loveliest landscapes, with a glad surprise. 

And gaze delighted into Woman's eyes — 

And, as the languor-loving Cingalese, 

Whose look is bent on India's opal seas. 

Are ever miadful of the pearls that glow 

With lambent lustre in the deeps below — 

To mark therein the priceless gems that shine 

Of Truth and Purity and Faith Divine: 

And more than all 'tis his ia joy to preach 

The glorious gospel of unfettered speech. 

And siag the high divinity of man 

By Freedom far removed from kingly ban; 

Well may the noble theme inspire his rhyme 

In this our richly-favored western clime, 



POESY: AN ESSAY IN RHYME 195 

Whose banner streams against the sunset's bars 
And blends its baldric with the dripping stars, 
"Where Peace has left her name upon the tide. 
And through the Golden Gates the world's great navies 
ride! 



"SING, TENNYSON, SING!"" 

There is a sound of thunder afar, 

Where is the laureate true to his pay? 
Let him come forward and sing of the war. 
Well, if it does not shut up his lay. 
Sing, sing, Tennyson, sing ! 
Ready, be ready, with ting-a-ling ! 
Tennyson, Tennyson, Tennyson, sing ! 

Be not deaf to the shrill French horns. 

Be not gulled by Napoleon petit. 
Are figs of thistles or grapes of thorns? 
What says the laureate? Fiddle-de-dee. 
Sing, sing, Tennyson, sing ! 
Ready, be ready, with ting-a-ling ! 
Tennyson, Tennyson, Tennyson, sing! 

Let your Idylls a moment go. 

Look to your butt of sack and your fame. 
Better a silly lyric or so 

Than a silly book or an epic to blame. 
Sing, sing, Tennyson, sing ! 
Ready, be ready, with ting-a-ling ! 
Tennyson, Tennyson, Tennyson, sing! 

Sing, we are all on hand to applaud ! 

Sing in Mars's name and the Queen's; 
True, you have recently given us Maud, 
But only the devU knows what that means. 
Sing, sing, Tennyson, sing! 
Ready, be ready, with ting-a-ling! 
Tennyson, Tennyson, Tennyson, sing! 
196 



"ONCE MOKE THE ALUMNI" ^^ 

I 

Once more the Alumni assemble ! Alas ! 

That their ranks are not full, that they come not en masse. 

How gladly I'd greet my old comrades^* again 

With the grasp of affection, the glass of champagne. 

II 

What a joyous symposium of soul there would be 
Could we all meet around the "Mahogany tree," 
And talk of the sessions of ages ago. 
When old Gess was the chairman, "Consule Planco." 

Ill 

That kiad ex-professor, long, long may he wave ! 

Would tell me quite likely with countenance grave 

As that of the sad apparition of Banquo, 

That my accent was wrong, and it should be called "Planco" 

IV 

But the pleasantest thing of these annual dinners 
Is this — that false quantities vex not us sinners, 
No bothersome "Final" the old ones harasses 
On crabbed constructions, or cosines, or gases. 

V 

We think not of Niebuhr — we care not a flam 
What may be the distinction 'twixt ita and tarn; 
Logarithms and their tables we gladly dismiss 
For just such a rhythm and a table as this. 

197 



198 "ONCE MORE THE ALUMNI" 



VI 

Sooth the verse might be smoother, the wit be more keen. 
Better suited at once to the guests and cuisine, 
But the feeling which prompts and the love which inspires 
Come direct from the heart, all aglow with its fires. 

vn 

For I think, as I scribble these fugitive lines, 
Of the anni fugaces and round me there shines 
The fair laughing sunlight aforetime that fell 
On the haunts and the friends I remember so well. 



vin 

I see the bright faces, the voices I hear 
Ring out from the past silver chiming and clear; 
But they mingle anon with a fxmeral hymn. 
And the laughter is ghastly, the sunlight is dim. 

IX 

Is it laughter from Lethe — that stream, does it roll 
In sidlen forgetfulness over the soul. 
As in silence we gaze across graves that are green 
Back on life's early morning so fresh and serene ? 

X 

Oh no: in our innocent revel we turn 
To recall our companions — departed — to learn 
From their lives the one paramoimt lesson of life : 
Time is short, duty presses, be strong for the strife ! 



"ONCE MORE THE ALUMNI" 199 



XI 

One there was, something wayward, impulsive and wUd; 
A Hylas in beauty, in freshness a child; 
First among us in gifts, we who loved him lang syne 
This poor immortelle for his tomb may entwine. 



xn 

And there was another, whose soul held seciu-e 
"Whatsoever was honest and lovely and pure, 
In meekness he walked by the light of the Word, 
And laid down his robes at the feet of the Lord ! 



XIII 

'Tis enough: — every new celebration gives birth 
By turns to emotions of sadness and mirth, 
With a smile on the lip and a tear in the eye 
Our hearts have their April this fourth of July. 

XIV 

And so for a gayer remembrance, — ^but where 

Are the boys who ought all in your banquet to share.? 

Why come they not yearly as pilgrims to find 

Near the sweet ville of Charlotte their Mecca of mind? 



XV 

There's the late Mr. Speaker, he luigers at home. 
There are Congressmen xmder the capitol's dome. 
There are soldiers and merchants, divines and M. D.'s 
And lawyers a legion, pray where are all these? 



200 "ONCE MORE THE ALUMNI" 



XVI 

There are Judges — I know of a learned one, too — 
If the Court know itself and the Court think it do — 
Who had rather his thirst at your festival quench 
Than be off on his circuit, the pride of the bench. 

XVII 

There's a Bishop, whose name would illumine my Lay, 
He has now little time to indtdge him ia play. 
What a pattern he was in his piety's dawn 
Even then, like a Bishop, he honoured "the Lawn." 

xvni 

There are lots of Professors, not distant to seek. 
Full of law and of gospel, good humor and Greek, 
Some are with you — take care of them — such are the crown 
Of our loved Alma Mater's most brilliant renown. 

XIX 

We have Editors also — there's one at your board. 
His mind with all eloquent memories stored. 
As his pocket with proof-sheets; he's ready to spout 
In a speech or a paragraph — just call him out. 

XX 

Nor will you forget, in the honours you pay 
To Genius, the eulogist lately of Clay — 
Methinks I can see you all shaking your sides 
At the fun, fast and flashing, he always provides. 



"ONCE MORE THE ALUMNI" 201 



XXI 

Who a name that's held high ever higher would raise, 
Whose culture, both Menti — and Agri — ^we praise; 
Arator and Orator, twice is he great 
Who makes the best speeches and crops in the state. 

XXII 

I must close. Let me give you a toast — here's the U- 
niversity, bless her and prosper her too, 
*Tl11 she shine in the blue arc of Science from far 
The reigning, the bright and particular star ! 

XXIII 

May the range of the learning she freely imparts 
Encircle the whole wide domain of the Arts, 
'Till a Raphael shall group aU her scholars, and lo ! 
With the "School of Virginia" the canvas shall glow: — 

XXIV 

May her walls and her domes in their beauty stUl rise 
From the sweetest of fields to the softest of skies. 
And her name, ever proud, greater homage command 
While the sentinel Ridge on her border shall stand. 



MISERRIMUS 

On the last night but one of the year '67, 

When a snow cloud hung darkly 'twixt Broadway and heaven, 

And the wind blew chill down the frozen street 

Where the warm-gloved watchman walked his beat. 

And Blanche o'er her bare white beautiful shoulder 

Pulled her furs and remarked "'Tis decidedly colder," 

As lightly she stepped from the door of the play 

To the soft cushioned seat of her shining coupe; 

On that last night but one of the year '67, 

As the clocks in the steeple were striking eleven, 

An everyday tragedy, old as the hills, 

A tragedy never set down in the bills, 

Acted itself with a sad iteration 

For its thousand and fiftieth representation: 

Nobody there when the curtain rose. 

Nobody present to witness the close, 

Only the All-Seeing Eye to behold it. 

Say, reader mine, would you like to be told it? 

Very well, I will tell 

How the matter befell. 

Place, the Fifth avenue; time, just recited: 
Background, a mansion all brilliantly lighted. 
One little scena, how long I'm not sure; 
Possibly 'twas but a mauvais quart d'heure. 
Dramatis persona, one little Italian, 
A tatterdemalion. 

202 



MISERRIMUS 20S 

As ragged — ^I give the report of a friend 

Who arrived opportunely just after the end. 

And who widely has wandered from country and home — 

As ragged as ever he 

Saw in TrasteverS, 
Over the tawny-tinged Tiber at Rome. 
Ragged and friendless and dirty and brown, 
Good-for-naught, vagabond boy of the town, 
Who lived in the streets, and who slept m a shanty. 
And spoke, in his way, the rich language of Dante; 

Not the lingua Toscana 

In bocca Romana, 
But a sort of patois of the Tuscan so flowery. 
With scraps of the sterner discourse of the bowery. 

Well, these, you will say. 

For a tragical play. 
Are materials scant as the skirts of the ballet. 
Yet I boldly aver, with the sombre finale. 
They would serve for a very fine painting by Gallait. 

Now this little scamp 

Was accustomed to tramp 
From Jefferson Market to Madison Square, 
Through the highways and lanes of our Vanity Fair; 
And as Christian in weariness carried his pack. 
So he bent 'neath the weight of a harp on his back; 

Which he often unslimg. 

And vindictively stnmg. 
In a manner distressing, as possibly you know. 
To wreak on the public the music of Gounod. 
All the Christmas — blest season of innocent mirth 
When a Glory Ineffable rests on the earth, 
Since Bethlehem witnessed Immanuel's birth — 
AH the Christmas did little Miserrimus trudge. 



204 MISERRIMUS 

A wandering minstrel, through snow and through sludge, 
('Twas a holiday cheerless for such as he. 
For he plucked the fruit of no Christmas tree. 
Nor did Santa Claus during his stillest repose 
Stuff bonbons and lollipops into his hose: 

And the reason's quite shocking — 

He hadn't a stocking !) 
Till that night when the stars in the snow-cloud were lost, 
And fiercely as fire came the terrible frost. 
When, like many who drag through this world of care, 
He at last foimd his burden too heavy to bear. 
And sank on the steps of a brown-stone palace. 
Where glittered the lustres and sparkled the chalice. 
For the gorgeous rooms were ablaze with light 
That streamed through the windows out into the night; 
And there, to the soft muffled sound of the viol. 
Forgetting his hunger, and fever and trial. 
The boy, who had no other wrapping to keep. 
Was very soon wrapped in the mantle of sleep. 

It so chanced that two gentlemen, passing that way. 

From the Nickleby Reading, the Theatre Frangais — 

Smike's wrongs and the queenly despair of Ristori — 

On a sudden encountered our young Trovatore: 

'Twas just as the watchman, to know what the knave meant. 

Had rolled him in tenderness down on the pavement. 

Had asked in a kindly, constabular tone. 

What he wanted, and bade him get up and be gone. 

But Miserrimus answered him never a word. 

Nor waked from bis slumber nor whispered nor stirred. 

The harp-strings were mute as the harp-strings of Tara, 

And dumb in the bundle of rags was the wearer. 

Alack ! what he wanted just now was — a coffin, 

For the poor little beggar was dead as the Dauphin, 



MISERRIMUS 205 

And the soul of the outcast, escaping its bars, 
Away through the snow-cloud that shut out the stars. 
Away from the sorrows and sins of the city. 
Had taken its flight to the Infinite Pity ! 

Voild tout I 

Nothing new. 

Very true — 

But with you, 
The moral, O people ! I leave it with you — 
The poor ye have always; oh, think of the poor 
Who perish of hunger and cold at your door; 
Remember the words of the Master, who came 
A world to redeem— what is done in My Name 
(Oh, blessed assm-ance ! oh, benison free !) 
To the least of these little ones is as to me; 
Think of the homeless sons of labor. 
And know that each man of them all is your neighbor; 
Think of the thousands that famish and die 
In the sorrowful South, of the children that cry 
For food unto mothers, who writhe with the pain 
That the "cry of the children," O God ! is in vain. 
Soothe in your mercy this bitter woe 
That the tears of this agony cease to flow; 
Lift ye the desolate out of the dust, 
And then, with a higher, a holier trust. 
May your morning petition, brothers ! be said. 
Give US this day our daily bread! 



GEORGE WYTHE RANDOLPH 



And is he dead whom we have loved so well — 

The sailor, soldier, scholar, statesman, dead ! 

And it remains that we shall rightly tell 

His virtues, and the crowning grace that shed 

A tender radiance over all his story — 

A radiance deepening at the end to glory. 

And traUing light along the darksome way 

By which he passed to everlasting day. 

And he is gone, we shall not see him more. 

Nor hear him yet in that familiar strain 

Wherewith he held us captive heart and brain. 

Of gentler fancies and of wisest lore: 

We still sit listening, though the voice is hushed. 

Nor ignorantly hold oiu" loss less great 

That his is a translation to the skies 

From all the thickening sorrows of the state — 

A land impoverished and a people crushed — 

That having borne the cross, he gains the prize ! 

Of little faith we are that we should weep 

When God the Father caUs His children hence 

With love imanswered by our mortal sense — 

For so He giveth His beloved sleep. 

n 

Our friend was of a lofty house and line, 
And owned as heritage an honored name; 
And with it, goodlier legacy than this, 
The love of all things lovely, noble, true: 
206 



GEORGE WYTHE RANDOLPH 207 

Wisdom with goodness did ia him combiae. 
Yet such a modesty, most rare, was his; 
And so apart he lived from noisy fame, 
And held so cheaply, he to duty vowed, 
As ever only may the wise and few 
The plauditory clamor of the crowd; 
Content to do the task, to bear the burden, 
Careless to win the empty, earthly guerdon. 
His greatness might have blossomed all unseen, 
Unrecognized, save in the narrow view 
Of home, had not the tumult of the time, 
And sore calamity of common weal. 
Called him to action on a stage sublime. 
And to his life affixed the endiu-ing seal: 
But centered in the full, iatensest light. 
That fiercest blaze of war across the land. 
Wherein your little nature looked so mean — 
Your party hero but a paltry thing. 
He rose fxill statured to that kingly height 
That we, who had not known him for a king. 
But deemed him great, and worthy of command. 
Rejoiced nor marvelled at his renown; 
Till wasted with his work he laid it down. 
Worn out with petty rivalries and strife. 
And, bending mostly 'neath the country's care, 
Within the inner temple of his life 
Withdrew himself as to a house of prayer. 
And walked therein serenely to the close. 
Through ever-present suffering, yet beguiled 
By tenderest sympathy and fondest looks — 
By sweet idolatry of art and books. 
And natm-e in far lands beyond the sea. 
And by the love of hers who loved him best; 
Thus gently solaced, chastened, reconciled. 



208 GEORGE WYTHE RANDOLPH 

In meek submission to the chastening rod. 

But ever yearning for diviner rest, 

Nearer he drew unto the peace of God 

Which passeth understanding, richly blest 

With earnest of an infinite repose. 

When death at last should kindly set him free. 

m 

Virginia mourns him, and with happier fates. 

Warriors and statesmen might have borne his pall; 

And had his been a public funeral. 

Lamented by a league of sorrowing States, 

With eulogy and anthem, trmnpet's wail. 

And pealing guns upon the evening breeze. 

And flags had drooped half mast in distant seas. 

Where he, the sailor boy, had braved the gale; 

And we, when time all jealousies had stilled, 

Had placed his marble image in a niche 

Of that majestic fane, with sculptures rich, 

And soaring dome, that we shall never build ; 

But now his image in our hearts is shrined. 

And what is mortal of the man consigned. 

In all the sanctity of private grief. 

To mother earth, amid ancestral tombs. 

Within those hallowed precincts which contain 

The dust of Monticello's mighty dead; 

There would I stray alone with reverent tread 

As, o'er the mountain, spring her joyous reign 

Reviews with aU her beauteous tints and blooms, 

And April's whisper stirs the tender leaf — 

There, softly stray as ia some minster dim 

Where saints and martyrs slept beneath the nave. 

To call up gentlest memories of him. 

And lay the earliest violets on his grave. 



UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA « 

Here at the well-remembered gates 

Through which we entered Learning's fane 
Led, brothers, by the kindly fates, 

In joy we meet again; 
And all the troubled Past rolls by 
Like storm-clouds from the summer sky, 
Till, lo ! Youth's sudden reappearing grace, 
A golden simlight, bathes and beautifies the place. 

To-day om* Mother greets her sons, 
With tender meaning in her eyes. 
The lofty and the lowly ones. 
The wayward and the wise; 
Alike, who, to enrich her fame. 
Come laurelled with an honored name. 
For virtue, knowledge, proud achievement known. 
And those who haply yet can offer love alone. 

And this in wealth I freely bring. 

As mindful of this careless rhyme. 
When only high imagining 

Befits the thoughtful time. 
When memories round us thickly throng 
Had moved the mightiest lords of song 
To epic majesty or lyric rage. 
Such as still lives and burns on the Miltonic page. 

But well I know that love sincere 

Our Mother will not cast aside, 
Nor yet with solemn brows severe 

Our little failings chide; 
209 



210 UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA 

Today no crabbed tasks she sets 

Of cosines or of sulphurets: 
The Sybil's awful tome she shuts awhile. 
And bids us all once more be happy in her smile. 

Since last these friendly walks I trod. 

My rambling feet have chanced to stray 
Where rise o'er England's verdant sod 

The "antique towers" of Gray; 
And where all softly Isis glides 
To mirror in her tranquil tides 
The stately domes, the immemorial trees, 
That give a nameless charm to Oxford's lettered ease. 

But Eton lacked the magic spell. 

With Oriel's ivy-clambered walls. 
That works its wondrous miracle 

In these familiar halls; 
That leads our footsteps swiftly back 
In fancy, o'er life's devious track. 
Till on, by path with plenteous roses strewn. 
In glad surprise again we reach our twentieth June. 

O Alma Mater! brighter far 

To us thy whitewashed brick arcades 
Than Europe's Gothic minsters are. 

Or classic colonnades: 
More dear these hills of oak and pine 
Than all the purple Apennine, 
Since here from boy to man we grew in turn. 
And lessons daily caught we never can unlearn. 

Here Nature year by year revealed 
The truths that Science would impress. 



UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA 211 

As spring threw over copse and field 
Her newly woven dress; 

And Autumn, walking in her pride 

The maple-belted mountain-side, 
Flung out her scarlet banners to the day, 
Till the whole Blue Ridge owned her coming and her sway. 

The Present was a rhythmic ode 

That beat to pulses of the heart. 
And music from the future flowed 

Diviner than Mozart: 
That music swells for us no more, 
That strain is hushed on sea and shore; 
But those who come our places here to fill 
Can catch its joyous burst, its glorious strophe, still. 

How quick from premise unto proof 

Our yet undimmed perceptions ran ! 
How far we built from base to roof 

Our chateaux en Espagne! 
Then life was but a reeling sense 
Of something like omnipotence: 
The lips we loved, the sweetest earthly flowers. 
Bloomed, smUed for us, and all the giddy world was ours ! 

De Juventute, threadbare theme 

In every age of pen and tongue — 
How gladly we dream o'er the dream 

We dreamt when we were young ! 
Nor futile yet this backward view. 
Could we ovir early faith renew. 
And with the joy and freshness of owe youth, 
Revive in all its strength our boyish trust in Truth. 



212 UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA 

For soon amid the worldly din 

Of man's incessant strife for gold — 
What time our hair grew gray or thin — ■ 

That early faith grew cold: 
Illusions that we dearest held 
Were sadly, one by one, dispelled: 
The pageant faded, and that boyish trust. 
Ere life's meridian hour, lay trodden in the dust. 

One self -same fortune all have known 

Of human life's unvaried round, 
VHio wandered to earth's farthest zone 

Or tUled their native ground: 
On for off oceans rudely tost. 
Or deep in roaring cities lost, 
AU, all have grieved, whatever else was gained, 
Some precious chance ill used, some guerdon unattained. 

In vain, as boys or men, we seek 

The mind's ideal; still it flies 
Our eager grasp, from peak to peak, 

Beyond the distant skies; 
Or from some lofty pathless cliff 
Forever mocks us with an If, 
Until we weary of the idle quest 
And, baffled oftentimes, sit down and long for rest. 

And thus, in ceaseless care and strife, 
Man walks the plain or toils the steep, 

And then at last "our little life 
Is rounded with a sleep": 

Thrice happy they who leave behind 

Some deathless work of heart or mind. 



UNIVERSITY OP VIRGINIA £1S 

Some gem discovered in the mines of Thought 

To tell that they have lived, and have not lived for naught. 

"But why not," some one seems to say, 

"O Poet! with your verse infuse 
The humor of a livelier lay. 
Or woo a merrier Muse? 
Why turn ia this dejected mood 
From platitude to platitude. 
Content on trite moralities, to dwell. 
So often drUy taught and only learned too well? 

"Need poet by what themes be told 
The passing hour is best beguiled? 
The Graces never yet grew old. 

And Love remains a child ; * 
And woman's neck is still as white 
As Helen's, and her eyes as bright: 
And 'neath her smile the Future's shadowy scope 
In sudden glow assumes the radiant hues of Hope." 

The timely hint I fain would heed. 

That sadness is not Wisdom's plan. 
And scatter from the sportive reed 

The jocund notes of Pan; 
And yet I do but strive in vaia 
Some mirth to mingle with my strain: 
The lighter fancies bring not their relief. 
The pensive humor holds and deepens into grief. 

For, brothers, while your ranks I view. 
Another throng, methinks, I see, 

* Les Amours sont toujoura enfans, 
Et les Graces sont de tout S.ge. 



214 UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA 

And read the Psalmist's line anew 
The Dead alone are free ! 

Some who departed ere the flame 

Of conquest and of ruin came. 
And some who passed through battle's fiercest fire 
Beyond all earthly wrong, and struggle, and desire. 

And death hath to their presence lent 

A grace the living cannot reach. 
Their silence is more eloquent 

Than our imperfect speech — 
The calm of an eternal rest 
Is in each countenance exprest; 
I mark the halo round each shining head. 
And feel we are less great, less noble, than the Dead. 

Their praise demands a loftier verse: 

Ah, what avails the feeble line 
Thy merit, Thornton! to rehearse; 

Or, gifted Coleman ! thine ? 
The orator whose deeds eclipse 
The memory of his fluent lips — 
The gentle scholar and the faithful friend. 
Who Falkland's knighthood seemed with Arnold's lore to 
blend. 

While here om- sorrowing Mother keeps 

His loss as her peculiar pain, 
For yet another child she weeps 

Who came not back again — 
Whose brief career on earth would seem 
A tender but unfinished theme — ■ 
Maupin, translated to the silent shore, 
Robed with immortal youth, and fair forevermore. 



UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA 215 

What helps it now that I should seek 
Of Newton's cherished worth to tell; 
Of Fairfax, peerless name ! to speak, 

Among the first who fell; 
Of Brown to sing, whose diamond star 
Of death in battle shines afar; 
To call up Latane's benignant shade. 
Upon whose early grave some few poor wreaths I laid ? 

The fame how shall my rhyme declare 

Of him, with every virtue sealed, 
Who glorious made the name I bear, 

On Shiloh's crimson field; 
Of Terrell, Paxton, Rives, who died 
Upborne on triumph's transient tide; 
Of Cunningham, bewaUed with costliest tears. 
And Harrison, cut down in manhood's opening years? 

What pen, though dipped iu morning skies. 

What sweetest song of living praise. 
The unavailing sacrifice 

Shall mark to coming days. 
Of gallant Pegram, loved, deplored, 
A saintly life, a stainless sword — 
The young Marcellus of the falling state, 
A Virgil's lay alone might fitly celebrate. 

Nor yet less dearly mourned are they. 

Faithful in council and in camp, 
Who perished in the slow decay 

Of life's expiring lamp: 
I think of Tucker's features lit 
With music, tenderness, and wit; 



216 UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA 

Of Heath's fine head with learning's laurel decked. 
And Randolph's brow where sat ancestral intellect. 

Rest, heroes, rest from toil and care, 
By mountain slope or ocean's tides. 
Or deep m that rich Valley where 
Old Stonewall's ghost still rides: 
Albeit no memorial stone 
May make your names and valor known. 
There fairest maidens scatter blooms around. 
And with perennial love your quiet graves are crowned. 

Guard well, ye mountains, their repose; 
Chaunt, ocean, chaunt their requiem; 
From you whate'er of greatness flows 

Was imaged forth in them; 
And all on earth that's fair and bright. 
Of dearer charm or larger light. 
Shall still keep fresh the memory of the brave, 
W^hile Alleghany stands, or rolls th' Atlantic wave. . 

Their varied lives agree in one 

The sacred mandate to renew — 
What still your hands find to be done 

With all your might to do: 
They teach that not till we have striven 
With aU the strength that God has given 
Can we relinquish the appointed task. 
And on our feeble work His blessing dare to ask. 

An exile from my place of birth, 

I bear, in antique urn enshrined. 
No handful of my native earth 

To keep the spot in mind: 



UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA 217 

All that thou wast, that now thou art, 

I shrine, Virginia ! in my heart; 
Thy hills, thy plains, thy rushing streams I see 
Upon whatever soil my feet may chance to be. 

Her future what though clouds enfold, — 
Brave hands the waste may renovate. 
And make her greater than of old. 
Aye, something more than great. 
In labor, not in listlessness. 
Lies hid the secret of success; 
And now, as ever, empire's fruitfxil seeds. 
Bearing an hundredfold, are homely, toilsome deeds. 

Wise Natvu"e reconstructs her realm 

In beauty from her primal springs: 
The bluebird twitters in the elm. 
The corn still laughs and sings; 
Heaven showers upon the thirsty plain 
The early and the latter rain, 
And Plenty waits with ever liberal hand 
Her unexhausted gifts to pour upon the land. 

And, casting off unwise regrets. 

We yet may hope that time shall prove 
Kind hearts are more than bayonets. 

And force less strong than love: 
We hnow that order shall appear 
When God has made his purpose clear; 
The darkest riddles shall be understood. 
And all the perfect world shall in His sight be good ! 



THE BARBER BOY" 

Now see the quickly closing year 
Brings joyous days of festive cheer, 
When fatter dinners crown the board, 
And larders are with turkeys stored. 
The fire burns brighter on the hearth. 
The sagest are inclined to mirth, 
And every open house can show \ 
The holly and the mistletoe. \ 

Oh, happy time for boys and girls, 
(Their mothers' dearest, fairest pearls) 
Who dream of dolls and candy too. 
And only wake to find it true, 
For Santa Claus, their patron saint, 
With whom ye are full well acquaint. 
Is now upon his yearly track 
And down the chimney brings his pack. 

At such a time assistance lend 

To one who proves a constant friend 

And every generous purse employ 

To recollect the barber boy. 

A handsome head — a whisker trim, 

A well-brushed coat you owe to him. 

By razor keen with ease and grace 

He smoothes your rough and hairy face. 

And shaves you still with your consent — 

No monthly rate of three per cent! 

For patience, industry and thrift, 
He humbly asks a "Christmas gift," 
That he may join in all the fun. 
Which may in holidays be done, 
To mingle with the happy crowd. 
And pop his Chinese crackers loud. 
Such sportive scenes you know are rare. 
As "Christmas comes but once a year." 
218 



TRANSLATIONS 

"CARCASSONNE" 

[nadaud] 

I'm growing old, I've sixty years, 

I've labored all my life ia vain; 
In all that time of hopes and fears 

I've failed my dearest wish to gain. 
I see full well that here below 

Bliss imalloyed there is for none. 
My prayer will ne'er fulfillment know, 

I never have seen Carcassonne ! 

I never have seen Carcassonne ! 

You see the city from the hill, 

It lies beyond the mountains blue. 
And yet to reach it one must still 

Five long and weary leagues pursue. 
And to return as many more. 

Ah! had the vintage plenteous grown. 
The grape withheld its yellow store, 

I shall not look on Carcassonne ! 

I shall not look on Carcassonne ! 

They tell me every day is there 

Not more nor less than Sunday gay. 

In shining robes and garments fair. 
The people walk upon their way; 

One gazes there on castle walls 
As grand as those of Babylon, 
219 



"CARCASSONNE" 

A bishop and two generals — 

I do not know fair Carcassonne ! 
I do not know fair Carcassonne ! 

The vicar's right; he says that we 
Are ever wayward, weak and blind; 

He tells us in his homily 
Ambition ruins all mankind; 

Yet could I there two days have spent. 
While still the autumn sweetly shone, 

Ah, me ! I might have died content 
When I had looked on Carcassonne, 
When I had looked on Carcassonne ! 

Thy pardon, Father, I beseech, 

In this, my prayer, if I offend. 
One something sees beyond his reach 

From childhood to his journey's end; 
My wife, our little boy, Aignan, 

Have traveled even to Narbonne; 
My grandchild has seen Perpignan, 

And I have not seen Carcassonne! 

And I have not seen Carcassonne ! 

So crooned one day, close by Limoux, 
A peasant, double bent with age; 

"Rise up, my friend!" cried I; "with you 
I'll go upon this pilgrimage." 

We left next morning his abode. 

But (heaven forgive him) half way on 

The old man died upon the road; 
He never gazed on Carcassonne — 
Each mortal has his Carcassonne ! 



THE GARRET 

[beranger] 

The Asylum once more I behold, where my youth 

Learned the lessons to Poverty's self that belong — 
I was twenty ! I had a fond mistress, forsooth, 

A few trusty friends, and a liking for song. 
The world then I braved, both its wits and wights, 

With no thought of my future — but strong in my May, 
Light, joyous I climbed up the stairway six flights, 

Oh ! Life in a garret at twenty is gay ! 

'Tis a garret ! that fact I wish none to forget ! 

There once stood my bed — hard and shabby withal; 
My table stood there ! and I find there are yet 

In charcoal some fragments of verse on the wall. 
Come back ! O ye joys of Life's beautiful dawn ! 

Which Time with a flap of his wing drove away ! 
How often for you has my watch been in pawn ! 

Oh ! Life in a garret at twenty is gay ! 

Lisette above all should appear to our view. 

Light, joyous, with freshly trimmed hat as of yore. 
At the window her hand has already, in lieu 

Of a curtain, suspended the shawl that she wore; 
My bed, too, is prettily decked with her dress, 

Its folds loose and flowing. Love, spare them, I pray. 
Who paid for it all I have heard, I confess, 

Oh! Life in a garret at twenty is gay! 
221 



822 THE GARRET 

At table one day, when abundant the cheer, 

And the voices of my comrades in chorus rang high, 
A shout of rejoicing mounts up even here, 

"At Marengo Napoleon is victor," they cry ! 
Hark, the thunder of guns! a new stave loudly rings; 

As to deeds so resplendent our homage we pay; 
Never ! never ! shall France be invaded by Kings ! 

Oh ! Life in a garret at twenty is gay ! 

Let us go ! for my reason is drunk, as with wine ! 

How distant those days so regretted appear. 
What is Life me to live I would gladly resign 

For one month such as Heaven allotted me here; 
Of Glory, Love, Pleasure and Folly to dream — 

The whole of existence to spend in a day. 
With hope to illumine that day with her beam — 

Oh ! Life in a garret at twenty is gay ! 



WHERE? 

[heine] 

Where shall yet the wanderer jaded 

In the grave at last recline? 
In the South, by palm trees shaded ? 

Under lindens by the Rhine? 

Shall I in some desert sterile 
Be entombed by foreign hands? 

Shall I sleep beyond life's peril. 
By some seacoast in the sands? 

Well ! God's heaven will shine as brightly 
There as here, around my bed. 

And the stars, for death-lamps, nightly 
Shall be hung above my head. 



223 



THE KING OF TIPSY-LAND ^2 

[BfeRANGEB] 

Thebe was a king of Tipsy-land, 

Whom history doth not name; 
At noon he rose, at night he slept. 

Nor cared a fig for fame. 
With Joan, at sunset, he lay down, 
A cotton night-cap for his crown, 

Hey ! ding a ding ! ho ! drag a ding ! 

Ah ! what a jolly little king 

Was he! 

His palace it was buUt of straw. 

Four meals a day he ate: 
And, on a donkey, through his realm 

He rode in royal state. 
His jovial heart ne'er felt alarm. 
With Tray behind he feared no harm— 

Hey ! ding a ding ! ho ! ding a ding I 

Ah ! what a jolly little king 

Was he! 

He had no costly appetite. 

Except the love of wine; 
But, while he makes his subjects blest, 

A monarch still must dine. 
224 



THE KING OF TIPSY-LAND 

He levied toll on every cask. 

Nor wanted help to drain his flask — 

Hey ! ding a ding ! ho ! ding a ding ! 

Ah ! what a jolly little king 

Was he ! 

Both maid and matron welcomed him 

Where'er he chanced to call: 
The children learned to bless his name — 

The father of them all. 
No war filled parents' hearts with grief, 
The conscripts met to shoot for beef — 

Hey ! ding a ding ! ho ! ding a ding ! 

Ah ! what a jolly little king 

Was he! 

He ne'er was known o'er neighbors' lands 

To stretch his royal paw: 
A pattern he for potentates. 

For pleasure was his law. 
Till with his sires he went to sleep 
His people had no cause to weep — 

Hey ! ding a ding ! ho ! ding a ding ! 

Ah ! what a jolly little king 

Was he! 

The portraits of this worthy prince 
Are kept with pious care; *' 

And country taverns prosper still 
Where he swings in the air. 



226 THE KING OF TIPSY-LAND 

On holydays, the tippling crowd 
Will often chorus long and loud» 

Hey ! ding a ding ! ho ! ding a ding ! 

Ah ! what a jolly little kiag 

Was he ! 



APPENDIX 



I. THOMPSON'S COLLEGE VERSES 

All of the following poems except Verses of a Collegiate 
Historian appeared in The Collegian, a magazine conducted 
by a committee elected by the students of the University 
of Virginia and published from October, 1839, until June, 
1842. AU but two of the pieces were published in 1841. The 
authorship of The Hour of Separation is attested by the poet's 
initials, and the poem is accepted as his. Fotu* poems in 
the group are signed T., and one "Straws." There are reasons 
for accepting them but the evidence is not quite conclusive. 



AUTUMN 

Autumn again is here. Its nodding fields 
Of grain — the "yellow leaf" which now assumes 
Its loveliest hue, and leaves reluctantly 
The parent tree — the sportive rustling wind 
Breathing its soft and melancholy tune 
Through the decaying foliage — are each and all 
Its attributes. And truly they attest. 
With magic eloquence, the varied change 
Of things below. Man's destiny is writ 
In the huge tome of nature — ^he may go 
Abroad, and read it with attentive soul 
Until, with inspiration deeply fraught. 
He feels his heart is purified anew. 
Yet Autumn wakens many mournful thoughts. 
And frequently, when musing on the theme. 
My spirit all subdued by sad restraints — 
I've wished, with some fine poet I have read, 
"I with green summer like a leaf might die." 
227 



228 APPENDIX 



VERSES OF A COLLEGIATE HISTORIAN 

A few days since, in looking over an old Note Book, that 
contained many scraps from the wayward fancy of its owner, 
I came across the following verses — a record of the poetic 
talent of some former student. There is much spirit and 
humor in them, and I hope the compliments they are destined 
to receive will reconcile the author to their publication, if 
perchance they ever meet his eye. 

End at last! Gloria in Excelsis! ! 

Eight minutes of eleven o'clock, Jan. 30th, 1841. 

Farewell ! farewell to thee, old Latin History ! 

(Thus warbled a student, who once read it through.) 
Thou art so profoundly enveloped in mystery 

That with feelings of pleasure I bid you adieu. 

Old Niebuhr no longer shall act as my teacher. 

Researches like his are too boring for me, 
For though he has tales of "poetical nature," 

Yet poetry in them I never could see. 

"The Library for the diffusion of knowledge" — 
To give my opinion — a humbug I'll call. 

I hope that it soon will be kicked out of College 
"Etruscans," "Pelasgi," "Venetians" and all. 

Old Rome's institutions, religious and civil, 
I leave with emotion unmixed with regret. 

And now Latin History may go to the d — 1 
But the troubles it cost me I'll never forget. 



THE INEBRIATE 

Go look upon the drunkard, with his wUd unmeaning eye 
Which flashed of yore with brilliancy and manly ardom* high. 
The Upas tree of sorrow on his brow has cast a blight. 
His virtues are but "embers of a flame which once was 
bright." 



APPENDIX 229 

Oh, think of peace and virtue lost forever to his soul. 
And curses springing every one from out the "festive bowl," 
Oh, thmk of happiness and pride, from which his spirit fell 
To revel in the splendours of a deep, and lurid hell. 

In infancy when that fair face was yet luitouched of pain, 
A mother's prayer had lifted up to God a fervent strain. 
Amid the changeful scenes of life to guide his steps aright. 
Till Death's command should call him to "the land of pure 
delight." 

The willows o'er that mother's tomb in solemn stillness wave. 
The father's silvery locks have gone in sorrow to the grave. 
What made their son this loathsome thing.? this thing so 

much abhorred.'' 
I answer — 'twas the "glasses" bright, which "sparkle on 

the board." 

Reader, I would conjure you now, by all you hold most dear. 
Your hopes of future happiness, and glory's bright career. 
To pause — when you the goblet lift — its horrors there re- 
view. 
Then dash the burning draught away, and live your life anew. 



DESPONDENCY 

Oh ! there are times when sorrows tinge the tablet of the 

soul. 
And o'er it naught but blasted hopes and gloomy visions 

roll. 
When all that passes 'round us and life's brightest prospects 

seem 
The relic of a thing that's gone ! the shadow of a dream ! 

The smiling face of nature — the city's bustling mart. 
Nor Fashion's glittering pageantry can then engage the heart. 
Our destiny seems guided by some overruling fate. 
And no "fair spirit" hovers near our woes to mitigate. 



230 APPENDIX 

Ambition then no longer seeks our bosoms to inflame 
With ardent aspirations and with thrilling thirst for fame. 
We only wish our troubles o'er in this ovu* earthly lot, 
To sink into Oblivion's stream, forgetting and forgot. 

Yet even then if thoughts of home, that dearest place on 

earth. 
Remind us of our boyish days, our childhood's gladsome 

mirth, 
The memory of a sister's smile, a mother's holy love, 
Will point us to a purer and a brighter sphere above. 



RETROSPECTION 

When looking back on life's career. 
Alternately, with smUe and tear, 
"Fond memory" discloses things 
Which, flown on Time's swift mystic wings. 

Are long forgotten now — 
Which either serve to glad our breast. 
And lull our anxious cares to rest, 

Or darken up our brow. 
But when its great and magic power 
Gives us a "self-approving hour," 

How sweet the joy it brings; 
For o'er those acts we now approve 
Which savour of the life above — 

It ever gently flings 
A purer and a lovelier cast. 
Whose lustre cannot be surpassed. 



LINES 

ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL WILLIAM HENRT HARBISON, 
PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES 

A great one is gone ! Lo, the loud lamentation ! 

Which heralds the loss of the noble and brave, 
Rings long o'er the darkened and desolate nation. 

Aid millions of freemen weep over his grave. 



APPENDIX 231 

A few weeks ago, and his praises resounded 
From the tall Rocky Mount to the high rolling surge. 

But now his existence on earth has been bounded. 
And lo ! the whole country is chanting his dirge ! 

Ye mortals ! behold what a lesson it teaches — 

"What shadows we are, and what shadows pursue" — 

Death's arrow, with imerring certainty, reaches 
The weak and the mighty, the false and the true. 

Although the cold tomb his frail body encloses, 
His spirit has burst from beneath the dark sod; 

And, in the abode of the blest now reposes 

In peace with his Maker — his Father — ^his God. 



THE HOUR OF SEPARATION 

Oh! this is a time of rejoicing and sadness. 

Our bosoms are rife with delight and regret; 
One moment our faces are beaming with gladness. 

Another with tears fast and gushing are wet. 
When we think of the homes we are shortly to visit, 

Rejoicing fast chases our sorrow away, 
But to part with our classmates is tortiu-e exquisite 

Then Gaiety even forgets to be gay. 

Farewell to thee, Horace ! Farewell to thee. Homer ! 

With your spirits we now can no longer commune. 
To those who have failed to obtain a diploma 

To see you next session wUl surely be soon. 
Farewell to the room, where so often we've listened 

To eloquence breathing of angles and cubes. 
Of acids, and gases, and simbeams that glistened. 

And liquids eccentric that rise up in tubes. 

Adieu to the Doctor, remembered in story. 
Who woke us from happy oblivion of care. 

Though vacation wiU see him "alone in his glory," 
He'll visit the rooms every mom as they are. 



232 APPENDIX 

And finding no victims in slumber reposing. 
As he peeps in his head thro' the opening door 

A tear fills his eye as, it hurriedly closing, 
He walks on as quick and as grave as before. 

The clock, too, then in his exclusive dominion. 

His watch so erratic will have to obey, 
And it is my imbiased and candid opinion 

He'll alter it every half-hour in the day. 
For the hands run a race (and the small one's the winner) 

To get up early for breakfast you know. 
But when comes the time set apart for our dinner, 

I never saw things so infernally slow. 

And now all is over; reluctantly leaving, 

With rubicund faces, and optics all wet. 
We part with each other, all fondly receiving 

The grasp of affection, the tear of regret. 
May our course in life's desert be far from the wrong 

In joy or affliction, in sunshine or rain, 
And "may Providence bear us uninjured along 

Nor scatter our paths with repentance and pain." 



II. FUGITIVE THOMPSONIANA 
1. THE STOWE EPIGRAM 

The following was a part of Thompson's contribution to 
the Editor's Table of The Southern Literary Messenger for 
January, 1853: 

The following epigram we think has 'point — ^the most im- 
portant feature in such compositions from the time of Mar- 
tial down to our own day. But let the reader, by all means, 
judge for himself: 

When Latin I studied, my Arnsworth in hand, 
I answered my teacher that Sto meant to stand. 
But if asked I should now give another reply. 
For Stowe means, beyond any cavil, to lie. 



APPENDIX 233 



2. POMPONNETTE 



These lines, French and English, were written, in Thomp- 
son's hand, on an envelope in the possession of his niece, 
Miss Lily Quarles, of Petersburg, Va.: 

II a conduit Pomponnette 

Chez Vachette, 
Dans le cabmet vingt-deux, 
Et, la, meme avant le bisque, 
^ II se risque 
A lui declarer ses feux. 

He escorted Pomponnette 
To the cafe of Vachette, 

In number twenty-two; 
And before the soup he there 
Ventured boldly to declare 

His passion warm and true. 



3. ROGER BONTEMPS 

He wrote in the Editor's Table for August, 1857: 

The nearest approach to a religious sentiment which we 
can recall in Beranger occurs in the well known song of Roger 
Bontemps, and this is as French as possible — 

Dieu au ciel: je me fie, 

Mon Pere, a ta bonte; 
De ma philosophic 

Pardonne la gaite: 
Que ma saison derniere 

Soit encore ma printemps; 
Eh gai ! c'est la priere 

Du gros Roger Bontemps — 

which we venture to translate, a little less freely than 
Thackeray, and a little less faithfully than Mr. Young, as 
follows — 



APPENDIX 

I trust to thy goodness, my Father in Heaven. 
Let my philosophy's mirth be forgiven: 
Let my last season as springtime be gay — 
Fat Roger Bontemps forever will pray. 



4. BERANGER AND LAMARTINE 

In the same department of The Messenger for September, 
1857, Thompson inserted these jeux d' esprit : 

Among the many reminiscences of Beranger which have 
been called up by his recent death is a very graceful little 
epigram written imderneath a stanza of Lamartine ia the 
album of a lady of Marseilles. The poet of sentiment had 
inscribed his name therein with these lines: 

Dans ce cimitiere de gloire 

Vous voulez ma cendre; a quoi bon.'' 

Pendant que j'inscris ma memoire 
Le temps pulverise mon nom — 

of which this must stand for an English equivalent, as well 
as we can give it: 

In this burial place of glory 

You wish my ashes; empty fame! 

While I write therein my story 
Time shall pulverize my name. 

The poet of humor having been requested to adorn the 
album with his autograph, seized the pen and threw oflf these 
happy and ingenious supplementary rhymes (what would 
not the leaf which contains the two memorials sell for, at 
an auction of autographs !) : 

Si le temps, pour marquer jusqu' ou va son empire. 
Pulverise en eflFet le beau nom que voila, 

Qu'U daigne sur les vers que j'ose encore ecrire 
Jeter un peu de cette poudre la — 



APPENDIX 235 

for which the following paraphrase of our own is, we fear, 
but an awkward substitute: 

Should Time, just to show us the range of his might, 
Crush, indeed, to a powder that glorious name. 

Let him deign, on the verses I too dare to write, 
Of that powder to sprinkle a bit of the same. 



5. TO FANNY 

Thompson's fibst poem, written at is (in isse) 

Dear lady, O, the task is mine 

To write in your album a line 

Or two, if that would please you more; 

And if I could, I'd write a score. 

Dear Fanny, such a heavy task 
Of you I'm sure I'd never ask. 
For I declare it's rather hard 
To wake my sleepy, slumbering bard. 

But as I've written a line or two 
I think I'll try to make it do. 
Pray do not treat it with contempt — 
Remember 'tis my first attempt. 



6. THE SOUTHERN LYRE 

"In another part of the present issue of the Illustrated 
News," says an editorial note in the number for July 4, 1863, 
"the reader will find a finely-wrought poem entitled The 
Southern Lyre, in which one of the most graceful and imagina- 
tive of the poets of om* sunny land sings the praises of his 
brother minstrels." In this poetic album of Southern poets 
— which is the work of Paul H. Hayne — the editor of the 
Illustrated News is included: 



236 APPENDIX 

There, Thompson ! with his scholar's mien. 
His front so graceful and serene. 
Walks calmly o'er the fairy scene; 

His own — what e'er his Muse's part — 
Ease, learning, tenderness and art — 
Bright fusion of the mind and heart. 

Thompson paid in kind. Quoting further from his editorial : 
"There is one figure wanting surely [in the portraits in The 
Southern Lyre], as all will concede — that of the gifted young 
bard himself, and we beg to supply it, if a hand so unskilful 
as our own may be permitted to strike the strings of his harp 
in the same measure that he has chosen: 

"And Hayne, the Petrarch of the land, 
Joins modestly the radiant band. 
The golden lyre held in his hand — 

"The lyre from whose divinest strings 
With wondrous melody he flings 
The tenderest imaginings — 

**0r strikes a lofty war-like strain, 
A lyric of the battle-plain: 
All honor to the poet Hayne!" 



III. NOTES 

The Btjbial of Latanb, P. 4 

^ The following prefaced the poem as printed in The Messenger : 
"The next squadron moved to the front under the lamented Cap- 
tain Latane, making a most brilliant and successful charge with 
drawn sabres upon the enemy's picked ground, and after a hotly- 
contested hand-to-hand conflict, put him to flight, but not until 
the gallant captain had sealed his devotion to his native soil with his 
blood." — Official report of the Pamunkey expedition by General J. E. B. 
Stuart, C.S.A. 

"Lieutenant Latane carried his brother's dead body to Mrs. 
Brockenbrough's plantation, an hour or two after his death. On this 
sad and lonely errand he met a party of Yankees, who followed him 
to Mrs. Brockenbrough's gate, and stopping there, told him that as 
soon as he had placed his brother's body in friendly hands, he must 
surrender himseK prisoner. . . . Mrs. Brockenbrough sent for an 
Episcopal clergyman to perform the funeral ceremonies, but the 
enemy would not permit him to pass. . . . Then, with a few other 
ladies, a fair-haired little girl, her apron filled with white flowers, and 
a few faithful slaves who stood reverently near, a pious Virginia 
matron read the solemn and beautiful burial service over the cold, 
still form of one of the noblest gentlemen and most intrepid officers 
in the Confederate Army. She watched the clods, heaped upon the 
coffin-lid, then s inkin g on her knees, in sight and hearing of the foe, 
she committed his soul's welfare, and the stricken hearts he had 
left behind him, to the mercy of the All-Father." 

— Extract from private letter. 

^ By J. R. T.* The beautiful image in the concluding stanza is 
borrowed (and some of the language versified) from the eloquent 
remarks of Hon. R. M. T. Hunter on the death of ex-President 
Tyler. 

* These initials identify notes made by Thompson. 
237 



238 NOTES 

Genebal J. E. B. Stuart, P. 8 

' This poem was said to have been written on the day of Stuart's 
funeral, at St. James Episcopal church, Richmond, Va., May 13, 
1864. It was published by May 25, 1864. In an expense account 
for a part of that year Thompson wrote: "Sent in a note to Con- 
stance Gary [afterwards Mrs. Burton Harrison] on the 25th May, for 
the benefit of wounded soldiers at Camp Winder, proceeds of a poem 
on the 'Obsequies of Stuart,' which note was never received; dona- 
tion therefore lost, but amount to be entered, $50." The next item 
is an interesting commentary on the price paid for the poem : " 3 June. 
Bottle of Brandy $50." 

U. S. District Court, District No. 1, Underwood, J., P. 39 

* John Curtis Underwood, Federal Judge of the district of Virginia, 
was detested for requiring mixed juries and for other oflBcial acts 
during the reconstruction period following the Civil War. 

Virginia Fuit, P. 49 

^ Virginia Fuit was printed in the Old Guard, New York, in May, 
1867, unsigned. As Thompson's work it was included in The South- 
ern Amaranth, a collection of poems made that year by Miss Sally 
A. Brock, of Richmond. In 1913, a new edition of Daniel Bedinger 
Lucas's The Land Where We Were Dreaming was published, and 
Virginia Fuit was included among the poems then first admitted to 
Judge Lucas's volume. It was inserted on the authority of an un- 
signed proof-sheet found among his papers and also because the 
editors were not aware that it had ever appeared as Mr. Thomp- 
son's. Recently, among the latter's papers, I found the poem in his 
handwriting in the form (including capital and italic letters) in which 
it wasjprinted in The Souihem Amaranth. This and the added fact 
that it was published over his name in The Southern Amaranth by 
one of Thompson's Richmond acquaintances then in New York and 
doubtless in contact with the poet, who was there, too, go far to 
authenticate the verses as Thompson's production. 

6ByJ.R.T. 

To mould a mighty State's decree, 
and shape the whisper of the throne. 

— Tenntson, In Memoriam. 



NOTES 239 

Dedication Hymn, P. 54 

' This hymn was written to be sung at the dedication, in 1848, of 
the First Presbyterian Church, Richmond, Va., of which Dr. Moses 
D. Hoge was minister. It was included among the hymns which 
composed the hymn book of the Presbyterian Church. 

La Morgue, P. 55 
^ By J. R. T. : Burke's description of the Dauphiness. 

Philip Pendleton Cooke, P. 60 

* These lines were written in 1850, the year PhiUp Pendleton Cooke 
died. They were incorporated in Virginia six years later. 

Proposed Sale op the Natural Bridge, P. 61 
^^ By J. R. T. : See Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. 
While stands the Coliseum Rome shall stand; 
When falls the Coliseum Rome shall fall. 
And when Rome falls, the world ! — Childe Harold. 

To Intemperance, P. 63 

^^ By J. R. T. : Attila, our readers are well aware, was thus desig- 
nated by the nations whose vineyards he uprooted and whose blood 
he poured out like water. "The grass never grew where the horse 
of Attila once set his foot." 

^^ Alexander the Great. He is said to be designated by some of the 
oriental nations, who retain a tradition of his bloody victories, by a 
passage, which, literally translated, answers that in the text. 

13 Nero. 

" We have the authority of Holy Writ for saying that Noah was a 
confirmed sot. 

The Voice op Richmond to Phineas T. Barnum, P. 68 
"ByJ. R. T.: 

Song, says this deserving poet,* 

With the free delights to dwell: 
'Twere an easy thing to show it. 
Yet abides with slaves as well: 
* " For song has a home in the hearts of the free." — Prise Sotiff. 



240 NOTES 

Where are heard the "Songs of Labor" 

Lightest on the evening air. 
With the banjo, pipe and tabor. 

Gentle Chirsty, tell us where? 

^® By J. R. T.: Joyce Heth, the nurse of Washington. 

Jenny Lind, P. 71 

^^ The following was the preface to this poem: 

The old year has gone out amid the usual festivities of Christmas, 
and, with such of our readers as reside in Richmond and Charleston, 
amid the yet lingering cadences of Jenny Lind. The visit of the 
nightingale to Richmond was a great triumph for us. We claim it 
all as our own work. It is a fact about which there can be no dis- 
pute, that our fervent invocations to the enchantress brought her 
to our region of the Union. Otherwise she would have been wafted 
to Havana by steamer, and our immediate fellow-citizens would not 
have heard her. Think of that and thank us. 

Jenny's visit and concert have already been suflBciently touched 
upon by our newspaper friends, but we cannot resist the temptation 
to say something of it ourselves. We shall be brief, and, like the 
editor of the Bunkum Flag Staff, we "ain't goin' to give way to our 
feelings," but for a different reason — because we cannot find words to 
adequately express them. So much by way of preface to our song 
of rejoicing. 

"Ah, Futile the Hope," P. 106 

^* The reference is to a caustic criticism, in the London Quarterly 
Review, July, 1853, of the Memoirs, Journals and Correspondence of 
Thomas Moore, edited by Lord John Russell. 

Souvenir of Zurich, P. 112 

^^ This poem and The Postilion of Linz, Linden, The Rhine, and My 
Murray grew out of his European travels in 1854, in company with 
Henry Winter Davis of Maryland and Robert E. Randall of Penn- 
sylvania, to whom he dedicated his book Across the Atlantic. 

A Picture, P. 118 

^^ Three years later, Oliver Wendell Holmes, in an instalment of 
The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table, published in The Atlantic Monthly 
for August, 1858, used the same similitude: 



NOTES 241 

"The schoolmistress came down with a rose in her hair — a fresh 
June rose. She has been walking early; she has brought back two others 
— one on each cheek. 

"I told her so, in some such pretty phrase as I could muster for 
the occasion. Those two blush roses I just spoke of turned into a couple 
of damasks." 

Patriotism, P. 124 

^^ This poem was read to the convention of the Delta Kappa 
Epsilon fraternity, at Carusi's saloon. Washington, D. C, 1856. 

^^ By J. R. T. : A slight liberty has been taken with the exposition 
of the Maitre de Philosophic in MoHere's Bourgeois Oentilhomme, who 
divides written composition into verse and prose, not into poetry and 
prose, as I have assumed. "Tout ce qui nest point prose," says he, 
"est vers, et tout ce qui n'est point vers est prose;" a proposition to 
which I can hardly accede, in the terms wherein it is stated, since 
many modern writers have given us examples of composition which 
is neither the one nor the other. 

^^ By J. R. T. : The voluntary errand of mercy on which Miss 
Annie M. Andrews of Syracuse, N. Y., came to Norfolk and Ports- 
mouth during the prevalence of the awful pestilence of 1854 in those 
cities should long be held in grateful remembrance by the people of 
Virginia, and well entitles her to be enrolled upon that honorable list 
of self-sacrificing women which includes the names of Elizabeth Fry 
and Florence Nightingale. England has done much in recognition of 
the services of the latter — does not Virginia owe some testimonial for 
the yet higher, because more perilous, labors of Miss Andrews ? 

24 By J. R. T.: Mr. Bryant, in one of the loftiest efforts of his 
genius, has finely impersonated Freedom in these magnificent lines — 

O Freedom ! thou art not, as poets dream, 

A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs. 

And wavy tresses gushing from the cap 

With which the Roman master crown'd his slave 

When he took off the gyves. A bearded man, 

Arm'd to the teeth, art thou : one mailed hand 

Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword; thy brow. 

Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarr'd 

With tokens of old wars. — The Antiquity of Freedom. 

It is in accordance with the striking image here presented that I 
have chosen to consider the goddess of our liberty as the daughter, 
rather than the person herself, of Freedom. 



242 NOTES 

^^ By J. R. T. : To such as have read Mr. Tennyson's Maud this 
will be recognized as but another form of 

The cobwebs woven across the cannon's throat 
Shall shake its threaded tears in the wind no more. 

But the conceit is, indeed, the common property of poets, since it 
may be traced back as far as Simonides, in whose Lines on Peace 
occurs the following passage: Iv Ss atSapoSsTotat icopica^tv alOav dtpotxvdtv 
laot xeXovTat — literally. 

And in the iron-boimd handles of shields, of black spiders 
The web exists. 

Virginia, P. 136 

^^ This poem was delivered before the Virginia Alpha Beta Kappa 
Society, in the chapel of William and Mary College, Williamsburg, 
July 3, 1856. 

The Jamestown Celebration, 1857, P. 146 

" By J. R. T.: It is due to Lieut. Col. R. Milton Cary, the officer 
in command of the 1st Regiment of Virginia Volunteers, encamped on 
Jamestown Island, to state that as soon as he heard of the desecra- 
tions the visitors were committing in the old graveyard he des- 
patched a file of soldiers to protect the tombs from further injury. 
The credit should also be awarded this excellent officer of having 
promptly suppressed the gaming which had been commenced by the 
"fraternity " as soon as the company arrived upon the groimd. 

28 By J. R. T.: The Jamestown Society of Washington, D. C, 
under the lead of their president, P. R. Fendall, Esq., was accom- 
panied by the venerable George Washington Parke Custis, who was 
the object of curious yet most respectful attention throughout the 
day. 

2^ By J. R. T. : The editor desires to be understood as referring here 
only to the manner of Mr. Tyler's oration. All who read it in the 
foregoing pages of the present number of The Messenger will be im- 
pressed with its appropriateness and value as a fine historic com- 
position. 

^^ By J. R. T. : A very beautiful display of fire-works was made 
from the deck of Mr. Allen's yacht, the "Breeze," during the evening, 
which was followed up by a handsome pyrotechnic performance in 
the camp. 



NOTES 243 



Washington, P, 155 

^^ This ode was read at the inauguration of the equestrian statue 
of Washington in Richmond, Va., February 22, 1858. 

The Old Dominion Jtilep Bowl, P. 166 

^^ These verses were read at an informal social meeting in Rich- 
mond in compliment to Mr. James just before his departure for Ven- 
ice, in 1858. 

^' By J. R. T. : The testimonial presented to Mr. James on this 
occasion. It was of silver incribed "Old Dominion Julep Bowl" 
on one side, and on the other: 

To G. P. R. James, 
From a few of his friends in Virginia. 

May their names, 
Familiar to his ear as household words. 
Be in this flowing cup freshly remembered. 

Robert Burns, P. 172 

^* By J. R. T. : The following lines on Bums were written for a 
centennial dinner, given in New York. 

Virginia, P. 181 

^^This tribute to Virginia was read, by N. H. Campbell, at the 
first anniversary of the Old Dominion Society of New York, at the 
dinner at the Metropolitan Hotel, May 13, 1860. The author was 
about to leave Richmond for Augusta, Ga., and could not be present 
at the banquet. 

Pobbt: An Essay in Rhtme, P, 185 

'* This rhymed essay was delivered before the literary societies of 
Columbian College, Washington, D. C, June 28, 1859. 

"Sing, Tennyson, Sing," P. 196 

^^ In May, 1859, after the beginning of war between France, Pied- 
mont, and Austria, and when England feared French invasion, Tenny- 
son sent to the London Times the poem which appears in his collected 
works under the title Riflemen, Form! It soon made the rounds in 



244 NOTES 

American newspapers. Thompson printed it in The Southern Literary 
Messenger, and along with it this skit. 

"Once More the Alumni," P. 197 

^* This ode, for the alumni dinner at the University of Virginia on 
July 4, 1860, was composed in Augusta, Ga., whither Thompson had 
gone to edit The Southern Field and Fireside. 

^^ It has not been possible to identify all of the "old comrades" to 
whom Thompson referred in these lines. "Old Gess," in II, was Dr. 
Gessner Harrison, who was Chairman of the Faculty and professor 
of ancient languages when Thompson entered the University. "The 
late Mr. Speaker," in XV, was James L. Orr, afterwards governor of 
South CaroUna and minister to Russia. "There's a Bishop," in 
XVII, was Henry C. Lay, then of Maryland. "We have Editors 
also," in XIX, refers to James C. Southall of the Richmond Enquirer. 
"The eulogist lately of Clay," in XX, was B. Johnson Barbour of 
Virginia who had recently (on April 12, 1860) delivered the address 
at the unveiling of the Clay statue in Capital Square, Richmond, Va. 

University of Virginia, P. 209 

*^ This poem was read before the Society of the Alumni of the 
University of Virginia July 1, 1869. 

The Barber Boy, P. 218 

*^ The Barber Boy was written as a Christmas address to be offered 
by the subject of the verses in his pursuit of tips from the patrons of 
the "dressing-room" of the Exchange Hotel, Richmond, Va., long 
notable as the headquarters of Virginia political leaders. 

The King of Tipsy-Land, P. 224 

*2 This translation of Beranger's poem, which Thompson published 
in The Southern Literary Messenger in May, 1849, has been attributed 
to him, but with no certain proof that it was his work. A diligent 
search has brought to light many renderings of Le Roi d' Yvetot, but 
this one has been found only in The Messenger. 



INDEX OF POEMS 



"Ah, Futile the Hope," 106. 
Amelie Louise Rives, 59. 
Ashby, 6. 
Autumn, 227. 
Autumn Lines, 100. 

Barber Boy, The, 218. 

Battle Rainbow, The, 11. 

Benedicite, 87. 

Brave, The, 99. 

"Brightly, with the Elfin Train 

Attended," 96. 
Burial of Latane, The, 4. 

Carcassonne, 219. 
Coercion, 36. 

Dedication Hymn, 54. 
Despondency, 229. 
Devil's Delight, The, 30. 
Dirge for the Funeral Solemnities 
of Zachary Taylor, 67. 

England's Neutrality, 24. 

E. V. v., 1859, 180. 

Exile's Sunset Song, The, 103. 

Farewell to Pope, A, 43. 

Garret, The, 221. 
General J. E. B. Stuart, 8. 
George Wythe Randolph, 206. 
Greek Slave, of Powers, The, 5l. 

Hexameters at Jamestown, 175. 
Hour of Separation, The, 231. 

Inebriate, The, 228. 
In Forma Pauperis, 122. 
Invocation, 68. 



Jamestown Celebration, The, 

146. 
Jenny Lind, 71. 
Joe Johnston. See A Word with 

the West, 33. 

King of Tipsy-Land, The, 224. 

La Morgue, 55. 

Lee to the Rear, 1. 

Legend of Barber-y, A, 119. 

L'Envoi, 98. 

Letter, A, 92. 

Linden, 116. 

Lines on the Death of William 

Henry Harrison, 230. 
Local Item, A. See Miserrimus, 

202. 
Lou, 153. 

May Day, 169. 
Miserrimus, 202. 
Motto, The, 179, 
Music in Camp, 13. 
My Murray, 108. 

Old Abe's Message, 21. 
Old Books to Read, 75. 
Old Dominion Julep Bowl, The, 

166. 
Old Friends to Love, 77. 
Old Wine to Drmk, 76. 
Old Wood to Bum, 76. 
"Once More the Alumni," 197. 
On to Richmond, 16. 

Patriotism, 124. 
Paul H. Hayne, 145. 
Philip Pendleton Cooke, 60. 



245 



S46 



INDEX 



Picture, A, 118. 

Poesy: An Essay in Rhyme, 185. 
Postilion of Linz, The, 114. 
Proposed Sale of the Natural 
Bridge, 61. 

Retrospect of 1849, A, 73. 
Retrospection, 230. 
Rhine, The, 110. 
Richmond's a Hard Road to 

Travel, 45. 
Robert Burns, 172. 

"Sing, Tennyson, Sing," 196. 
Song, 165. 

Sonnets to Winter, 76. 
Souvenir of Zurich, A, 112. 

To , 86. 

To Bulwer, 81. 
To Fanny, 233. 
To Intemperance, 63. 
To Jenny Herself, 70. 



To Mrs. S. P. Q 

Marriage, 65. 
To One in Affliction, 82, 



on Her 



United States District Court, 39. 
University of Virginia, 209. 
Unwritten Music, 88. 

Verses of a Collegiate Historian, 

228. 
Violante, 84. 
Virginia, 136. 
Virginia Fuit, 49. 
"Virginia, in Our Flowing 

Bowls," 181. 

Washington, 155. 

Webster, 90. 

Where? 223. 

William H. Seward, 40. 

Window-Panes at Brandon, The, 

79. 
Word with the West, A, 33. 



GENERAL INDEX 



Across the Atlantic, xxx. 
Addums, Mozis, xx. 
Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, xxi. 
Anthologies, Southern, xxii. 

Bagby, George W., xx. 
Baldwin, Joseph G., xxi. 
Barbour, B. Johnson, 244. 
Benjamin, Park, xxi. 
Beranger, Pierre Jean de, 232. 
Bryant, William Cullen, xxxvi, 

xlLx, 1, liv. 
Bulloch, James D., xi. 

Carlyle, Thomas, xlii, xliv. 
Carter, Fitzhugh, xlii. 
Confederate colony in London, 

xxxix. 
Cooke, John Esten, xvi, xx, 

xxxvi, xlviii. 
Cooke, Philip Pendleton, xx. 
Cooper, James Fenimore, xxiv. 

Davidson, James Wood, li, Iv. 

Emmet, John Patten, x. 
English, Thomas Dmm, xxi. 
Eustis, Mr. and Mrs., xlii. 

Feam, Walker, xl. 

Godwin, Parke, xxxvi. 
Griswold, Rufus W., xxiii, xxiv, 
xxxvii. 

Harrison, Gessner, xi, 244. 
Hayne, Paul Hamilton, xxi, lix. 
Henderson, Mrs. Daniel, 1, li. 
Hope, James Barron, xx. 
Hotze, Henry, xlv. 

Index, The (London), xxviii, 
XXXV, xxxviii, xl, xlii, xlv, xlvi. 

James, G. P. R., xxi, 243. 

Kennedy, John Pendleton, xviii, 

xxi, xxv-xxvii, xxxvi, xlviii. 
Kraitsir, Charles, x. 



Lamartine, Alphonse, 232. 
Latane, Captain, 237. 
Lawley, Francis Charles, xliii. 
Lay, Henry C, 244. 
Literature in the South, xvi, xix, 

XX, xxii, xxxiii. 
Long, George, xi. 
Lowell, James Russell, xxxvii. 
Lucas, Daniel Bedinger, 238. 

Macaulay, Thomas Babrngton, 

xxxix. 
Macfarland, James Edward, xl. 
Marvel, Ik, xxi. 
Mason, James M., xxxix, xlii. 
Maury, Matthew Fontaine, xviii. 
McCabe, W. Gordon, Iviii. 
Minor, Benjamin B., xviii, Iv. 
Mitchell, Donald G., xxi. 

Old Dominion Society of New 

York, 243. 
Orr, James L., 244. 

Poe, Edgar Allan, xi, xiv, xviii, 

xxiv, xxxiii, xxxvii. 
Pomponnette, 233. 
Post, New York Evening, xxxv, 

xlix, 1, liv. 
Powers, Pike, xi. 
Preston, Margaret J., xx. 

Randolph, George W., xliii, 206. 
Richmond, Va., social life in the 

'50s and '60s; beleaguered, 

xvi, xxix. 
Richmond Record, xxviii, xxx, 

xxxv. 
Roger Bontemps, 231. 

Seddon, James A., xiii. 

Simms, W. Gilmore, xxi, xxiv, 

xxix, xxxvi. 
Southern Amaranth, xxii. 
Southern Field and Fireside, xxv, 

xxvii, xxxv, xlviii. 



247 



248 



INDEX 



Southern Illustrated News, xxviii. 

Southern Literary Messenger, ac- 
quired by Thompson; its edi- 
tors, xviii; its publishers; a 
medium of Southern senti- 
ment, xix; its competitors, 
xxii; in distress, xxiv, xxv; 
Thompson resigns editorship, 
xxvii, xxxiv. 

Southern Lyre, 233. 

Southern Poems of the War, xxii. 

Southern writers, xv, xix, xx-xxii. 

Stanard, Mrs., xvii, xlviii. 

Stedman, Edmund Clarence, 

XXXV. 

Stockton, Frank R., xxi. 
Stoddard, Richard H., Iviii. 
Stowe epigram, 230. 
Stuart, J. E. B., 238. 
Sylvester, J. J., xi. 

Talley, Susan Archer, xx. 

Tennyson, Alfred, xlii, xliv, 243. 

Thompson, John R., ancestry 
and birth; boyhood homes, ix; 
enters University of Virginia; 
his professors, x; his college 
verse, xii, 225; graduates in 
law. University odes, xiii; 
opens law office, xv; poet of 
occasion, xvii; acquires South- 
ern Literary Messenger, xviii; 
encouragement of new writers, 
xxi; as a magazinist, xxiii; 
letters to Kennedy, xxv- 
xxvii; candidate for librarian 
of Peabody Institute, xxv; re- 
signs editorship of the South- 
ern Literary Messenger ; com- 
plimentary dinner; Richmond 
friends; leaves Richmond; in 
Augusta, xxvi; editor of the 
Southern Field and Fireside, 
xxv; ill-health, xxvii-xxix; 
invited to join the staflf of the 
Baltimore American ; Assis- 



tant Secretary of the Common- 
wealth; • editor of the Rich- 
mond Record; editor of the 
Southern Illustrated News, 
xxviii; correspondent of the 
London Index, xxvii; war 
poems, xxix; leaves for Em-ope; 
runs blockade; attempts to 
publish his and Timrod's 
poems, XXX ; his translations, 
xxxi; as an editor, xxxiv- 
xxxvii; as a critic, xxxvi; his 
relations with Poe, xxxvii; in 
London, xxxviii, xlvi; visits 
Scotland and Ireland, xl; his 
London friends, xlii, xliii; in 
Paris, xliii; his Diary, xlv; 
writes von Borcke's Memoirs 
of the Confederate War; re- 
turns to Virginia, xlvi; no em- 
ployment; lectures; in New 
York, xlvii, xlviii; on the Al- 
bion, xlviii; literary editor of 
the Evening Post, xlix; in 
Nassau and Cuba; in Colo- 
rado; back in New York, 1; 
Mrs. Henderson's kindness; 
his death; funeral, in New 
York, li; distinguished persons 
present; funeral, in Richmond, 
liii; estimates and tributes, 
xxxi, liv-lix; his literary re- 
mains; his literary executor, 
Iviii. 

Thompsoniana, fugitive, 230. 

Ticknor, F. O., xxi. 

Timrod, Henry, xxx, xxxiii, lix. 

Tucker, Henry St. George, xiii. 

Tuckerman, Henry T., xxi. 

University of Virginia, x, xi, 
xiii, xiv. 

War Poetry of the South, xxii. 
Whig, the Richmond, xviii. 
White, Thomas W., xviii. 
Willis, Nathaniel P., xxxvii. 







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